


war, guardians, and reimaginings (or, the greatest motivator)

by orphan_account



Series: all of our magics [2]
Category: American Revolution RPF, Hamilton - Miranda
Genre: Alternate Universe - Magic, Enemies to Lovers, Heavy Artistic License, M/M, also washington & meade & tilghman & harrison but ham lau and laf are the main ones
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-02-18
Updated: 2018-04-23
Packaged: 2019-03-20 15:22:01
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 31,227
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13720485
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: Sometimes, similar people aren't quite similar enough to hit it off instantly. This, however, can usually be solved with a little push.





	1. A Highly Accurate Warning

**Author's Note:**

> I meant to get this out sooner, I swear I did. Unfortunatley, on top of all my real life responsibilities, I couldn't come up with a title. It's a problem.  
> Also, a sidenote, Hamilton and Laurens get into a huge debate that they eventually solve, and the solution is mentioned somewhere else in the series (but see if you can get it on your own!)  
> 

In retrospect, just about everything looked at least a _little_ stupid.

It was a fact of life, really. In hindsight, every decision could be nitpicked to no end. The smallest choice could be put to blame for the most horrifying event one could imagine. Why hadn’t this person done this? Why didn’t you do that? Why hadn’t I realized that this was for the best?

The past had a profound impact on the future, which could unfortunately not always be predicted. With the hypothetical knowledge that the future might one day bring, one was sorely able to get lost in the possible consequences that their actions might bring. So what better a decision than to leave the worrying for a later date, and take action in the present?

But the potential of failure was a strong force. The fear of regret was more than enough to bring certain individuals to question such a reckless philosophy.

Regret, of course, could very well be defined as standing shoulder to shoulder with a sort-of-maybe _ex_ -bitter rival in front of the desk of the Commander-in-Chief of the entire Continental Army, as said general visibly restrained himself from strangling you.

“To be fair, Your Excellency-“ Laurens sharply stabbed Hamilton in the ribs with an elbow as an attempt to silence him, but Hamilton continued, “-you _did_ more than encourage us to drink together.”

A spasm made its way through Washington’s body. “You understand that it is customary to _place magic blockers_ on yourself before you drink. Please tell me that you understand, but just made a very stupid decision because you were stubborn.”

Hamilton, who had never heard of a magic blocker in his life, said, “I didn’t know of anyone to rescind the blocker.”

In a sarcastic tone that seemed absurd on him, Washington shot back, “To list a few, Meade, Tilghman, Harrison, and, oh, after the ordeal that you two orchestrated, maybe that hyperactive gnat named Lafayette!”

There was silence for a few moments. It was Laurens who broke the silence, and it was in Hamilton’s opinion that Laurens’ voice came through as though he’d long since died by mortification. “Actually, Your Excellency, he is a hyperactive gnat named _Marie-Joseph Paul Yves Roch Gilbert du Motier de_ Lafayette, _Marquis de_ Lafayette.” If he looked closely, Hamilton guessed that Laurens might be fighting back tears of- well, of whatever goddamn emotion encompassed this clusterfuck of a situation.

The General just stared at Laurens for a long while. “Where the hell did he come fr- actually, no, never mind. I’m leaving the responsibility of making sure he’s properly accommodated to you two. I can’t _begin_ to deal with this right now.”

“Yes, sir,” Laurens and Hamilton responded in unison.

They practically tripped over themselves to exit the tent, but almost ran back in when they saw Lafayette sitting on a stack of crates nearby, swinging and thumping his legs against one side. With a painfully genuine, _sharp_ smile, Lafayette asked,“qu’est-ce qu’un _gnat?”_

 

* * *

 

“He’s still just sitting there. Like an asshole.”

“Are we almost done here?”

“God, I hate him.”

“He’s only eating an apple.”

 _“Yeah,_ but I _hate him._ Haven’t you seen how he goes parading around thinking that he’s better than everyone else?”

Meade looked almost exasperated, but that couldn’t be right.

Hamilton had held a longstanding animosity (one that was potentially infamous among the encampment) against the newest aide-de-camp. Hamilton thought his name was Lawrence, but wasn’t sure. Was that bad? To not know the name of the man he was stalking? Probably, but only because it implied a deficiency in Hamilton’s surveillance skills and for no other reason.

At the moment, Hamilton had positioned Meade and himself behind a corner of a tent near the house where Washington and the aide-de-camps had set up shop. The newest aide had been sitting at an empty table in the house, alone, writing notes down as he ate his damn apple. Hamilton and Meade had the perfect view of him through a window.

Really, then, it should’ve been impossible for the new aide to hear their conversation, but he had stopped taking bites at his apple. Hamilton had just enough time to see the aide’s mouth moving before there was a burning sensation on his forehead. Hamilton slapped a hand over it on instinct, screaming, “ah, _shit!”_

Meade, who did not seem to be experiencing whatever the new aide had inflicted onto Hamilton, stood to leave. “Meade, wait a damn second-” he took his hand off of his forehead, and continued, “-is there anything on my forehead?”

It was not a good sign that Meade had to restrain himself from laughing.

A pit of dread filled Hamilton’s stomach. “What is it, Meade?”

But Meade, looking entirely too pleased with this turn of events, just walked away with his shoulders visibly quaking from repressed laughter.

Almost accusingly, Hamilton glared at the window he’d been spying the new aide through. Instead of sitting down, as he had been, the new aide had moved so that he was standing directly in front of the window. Once he’d seen that Hamilton’s attention had returned to him, he pressed a piece of parchment against the window. It read:

 

**_WARNING:_ **

_HIGHLY INFURIATING INDIVIDUAL_

 

After leaving it up for a few seconds, the new aide ripped it down, and raised a middle finger as he stomped out of the room.

Had he-?

Did the new aide just-?

The words that he used to summon a temporary mirror were from his mother’s Tome. It had been one of the first proper spells he’d ever casted, since it had many practical applications that went beyond checking one’s reflection.

While it was one of his favorites, Hamilton did know many other spells from his Tome. There was a huge variety, mainly Hebrew but also French and Spanish and Arabic. Spells weren’t even the only thing written down; his Tome also held information on rituals, ingredients with magical properties, and descriptions of magical creatures. After reading it through several times over, there was only a small amount of information that Hamilton had not yet extracted from his Tome.

That last fact, while usually reassuring, now gave Hamilton more anxiety than anything.

His Tome had not described how to remove _magical fucking graffiti_ from one’s skin.

And, worst of all, a group of new recruits had caught sight of Hamilton’s predicament and began laughing behind their hands. With a snap of his fingers, the mirror dissolved, and Hamilton marched over to the little shits, glaring very pointedly.

One of the braver ones decided that it had been too long since he’d gotten punched, and said, “alright, boys, ready to be infuriated?”

Hamilton saw red. “You might not know who I am, but that’s fine. See, I was in _law school_ before I enlisted, gained captaincy by the time I was twenty-one, and now I serve as an aide-de-camp to none other than George Fucking Washington. Do you think I got this far by being anything but an _excellent_ debater? If this behavior continues, I’ll look forwards to levelling a court martial against each and every one of you.”

He stormed off without letting any of them respond, one hand slapped over his forehead as he did.

 

* * *

 

Every day, Laurens arrived to what he picked up to be lovingly referred to as ‘the Hell room.’

(Truth be told, he didn’t think that the letter writing was all too bad, but on the other hand, Laurens understood the frustration that resulted when one would rather hold a sabre than a pen.)

Without fail, when Laurens reached it in the mornings, the Hell room already had Hamilton and Meade sitting at the table, waiting for the day’s correspondence to arrive. Usually, the pair of them were chatting amicably or snickering over some coffee. Once, Laurens had accidentally made the mistake of awakening before Meade but after Hamilton, which inevitably led to Laurens’ sketching charcoals being turned bright yellow.

It hadn’t been quite as harsh as was intended, since Laurens subsequently came up with the idea to pigment _all_ of his charcoals different colors. Sitting against the wall, happily sketching with his rainbow of charcoals- that had been enough to send Hamilton into a rage that took Meade a few hours to calm him from.

But having yellow sketching charcoal wasn’t a personal insult. Being baselessly labeled as haughty and selfish? Laurens wouldn’t stand for that. (Maybe the only reason that Laurens had heard the comment was because of his own eavesdropping spell, but Hamilton would’ve said the comment whether or not Laurens was listening in.)

So when Laurens came down to the Hell Room to see nobody there, he shrugged, and made sure the kitchen was empty before brewing some tea.

Retribution came shortly after work started, when the General was wondering what happened to Hamilton. “Shouldn’t he be here by now?” He asked the room.

Meade, who’d came down to the table late for unknown reasons, had to stifle a bout of laughter. “Sir, he’s hiding up in his room. And I don’t blame him.”

A bit exasperated, Washington sighed and announced to the room, “if I don’t come back, tell my wife that I loved her.” That got a round of laughs from the aides, but it wasn’t enough for Laurens. He muttered to himself some ancient couplet, and the eavesdropping spell reactivated.

In a few seconds, Laurens _heard a knock at a door, and a soft, “Hamilton?”_

_“Go away,” Hamilton’s voice said. Then, a hesitant cough. “I’m… sick.”_

_“And when the hell has that stopped you before?”_

_“Respectfully, sir, please go away.”_

_“I’m coming in.”_

_There were a few curse words muttered, and Laurens felt rather impressed by the phrase “putain du fuck.” There was the sounds of bed linens rustling (oh goodness, Hamilton was sulking in bed, wasn’t he?) before the door creaked open, and Hamilton said, “so this is what constitutes as going away?”_

_“Hamilton, why are you covering half of your face with a pillow?”_

_“Three-quarters, sir, actually.”_

Laurens let out a snort, forgetting that he was sitting in the currently silent Hell Room. “Well,” one of the other men- Tilghman, Laurens thought- said in response to Laurens’ seemingly unsubstantiated snort, “what is it that you’ve found so funny?”

_“Hamilton, take the pillow off of your face.”_

_“With all do respect sir, I’ll do no such thing, even if my life comes to depend on it.”_

Despite Laurens’ separation from the rest of the aides, Tilghman’s voice was warm and inviting enough. While he was slightly confused by this sudden change in behavior, Laurens smiled, and said, “just going over the situation with Hamilton in my head. It’s really quite amusing.”

_There was a muffled confrontation between Hamilton and Washington._

At Laurens’ reminder of the situation, Meade began laughing uncontrollably into a hand. Laurens did the same, but mostly because of the scuffle that was happening between Hamilton and Washington.

“The two of you know something!” Harrison shouted brightly, brushing away the letters he had been working on. The sudden friendliness of the rest of the aides was the cause of some of the most profound confusion Laurens had ever felt in his life. “You’ve got to tell us. Hammie’s been stuck up in his room since he came running in the house yesterday.”

As the sounds of Hamilton trying not to let Washington see the graffiti on his face came through to Laurens, Meade let out another burst of laughter. “God, I wish I could tell you, but I’ve been magically sworn to secrecy.”

_“Hamilton-” the sounds of the struggle were still sounding, but it seemed like Washington had managed to take away some of the pillow, “-why did you write ‘WARNING’ across your forehead?”_

_“It wasn’t me!”_

Tilghman put a solemn hand on Laurens’ shoulder. “It’s up to you.”

Grinning, Laurens shook his head. “I’m afraid that deniability is too valuable asset.”

 _By this time, it seemed that Washington had managed to emerge victorious from the scuffle. With more than a bit of exasperation in his tone, he asked, “Hamilton, who_ wrote _on your_ forehead?”

 _“It’s not_ just writing _. Magical graffiti, actually. Like the sort found on the walls of ancient Rome.”_

The aides had all bursted into jovial, yet hushed, laughter. “Laurens,” Harrison said in a jokingly scolding tone, “it was you, and here we were, convinced that you were much too shy to be the culprit!”

“I’ve been told I'm anything but shy,” Laurens shot back easily, cursing how he had isolated himself. He had fallen into conversation with the others without a sweat. And all it took was magical graffiti.

_“Like the sort that will last for a time that stretches thousands of years despite the attempts of many skilled magicians to erase them?”_

_“I believe so,” Hamilton said miserably._

_Then, almost impressed, Washington said to himself, “but that’s a lost spell that we still can’t reconstruct…”_

Okay, yeah, Laurens took more than a bit of pride in that. It was a favorite pastime of his and- his and an old friend- to study the evidence left behind by lost spells. Reconstruction, however, had only succeeded only twice or thrice, and had always been Laurens’ work.

_“Sir? Are you able to get rid of it?”_

_“No,” Washington replied nonchalantly, Hamilton let out an amusing shriek of alarm, one loud enough_ that it was audible even in the Hell room.

Tilghman froze from where he had returned to writing, and then looked incredulously at Laurens. “What did you _do_ to him?”

As Meade collapsed into such a strong fit of laughter that he had to leave the room, Laurens shrugged, and replied, “I never said I did anything.” Tilghman rolled his eyes but returned to his work.

_Exasperated, Washington said a bit louder than necessary, “but I know of somebody who should be able to.”_

Hm, that was interesting. As far as Laurens knew, he had been the only person to fully understand the spell since it had been lost.

_“Who?” Hamilton’s voice was excited and eager; he must’ve been itching to get down, write letters for a few hours, and then get revenge against Laurens._

Hm, Laurens should probably begin investing into research on wards. That would surely give him an edge, but Hamilton might think to invest in _pixies._ God, those little shits were impossible to ward against. They should all really just be set on fire.

_“One second,” Washington said to Hamilton, like a parent telling about to check under their child’s bed for monsters. There was the sound of a few footsteps, and then he asked, “Laurens?”_

...Hm.

Slowly, so as to not let his hands shake, Laurens took a certain piece of paper out of his coat, and wrote on it, ‘Yes, sir?’

_“Ah, shit-” Hamilton’s voice sounded, and then a noise that indicated he’d slapped his forehead over the new words._

_Washington seemed to have walked over to Hamilton before peeling apart Hamilton's hand and forehead. “Laurens, please come up to Hamilton’s quarters, immediately.”_

On the paper, Laurens wrote, ‘Yes, sir.’

 _“Wait, he can_ hear _us?”_

Switching off the eavesdropping spell, Laurens took the spelled paper and stood to leave.

Three heads swiveled towards him (Meade having just returned). “Plausible deniability is of no use for me now,” Laurens said by explanation, and scurried out of the room as laughter erupted once more.

Laurens entered the room just as Hamilton was finishing tying his cravat, looking surly and vicious. Washington, as usual, just looked bored and slightly exasperated.

Without preamble, Washington turned to Laurens. “Please erase your warning, however accurate it may be-” Hamilton squawked in indignance- “from Hamilton’s forehead. I shall provide whatever materials you may need for the ritual.”

Before anything else, Laurens felt confusion. “Materials? Ritual? Sir, the reversal isn’t a ritual.”

It was Hamilton who responded. “But all rules of modern magic state that for the reversal of any spell, a ritual is required, and for a ritual a spell. And I saw you casting it. It was a spell.”

Scoffing, Laurens shot back, “and what about spells or rituals that wear off after a certain amount of time? That in itself proves that not all magic relies on a casting to reverse, much less that rituals reverse spells and the other way around.”

Huffing, Hamilton began to speak, but before he could, Laurens took out the paper and waved his hand over it, whispering the enchantment to remove the words from the page (and, by extension, Hamilton’s forehead) while also unbounding the the catalyst and target.

“Not a ritual,” Laurens said definitively, and then stuffed the paper into his coat pocket.

For some reason, Hamilton decided to take this as a matter of personal offense. “You used a material outside of your own body in order to achieve the result of a spell! By definition, that was a ritual!”

Frustrated beyond belief, Laurens explained, “no, a ritual is defined by how volatile the incantations are! Yeah, it would’ve been a ritual if I’d had to place emphasis on every other third syllable or else cause an explosion, but I’ve never even seriously studied Latin pronunciation-”

“Yeah, it’s obvious,” Hamilton shot back, leaving Laurens staring shocked at the uncalled-for remark, “but that’s a _characteristic_ of a ritual, not the defining mark of one.”

“First off, you pronounce _‘vice versa’_ with a soft ‘c’ and no ‘e’ sound after V-I-C, so you aren’t allowed to say anything about my pronunciation. Secondly, could you remind me as to _who_ brought this spell back from being a lost art?”

“In response to the first statement, _Latin’s phonology changes when it comes into English._ I _deeply_ regret the insinuation that I wouldn’t understand that simple fact. And the second, well, I can’t even know for sure that it _was_ you who brought the spell back from history! For all I know, it’s a lie to make yourself look good!”

The accusation struck Laurens like a lightning bolt. He had to close his eyes and take a deep breath to calm himself, and even afterwards, his words came out with an icy chill. “Don’t accuse me of being a liar unless you’re ready to duel over it.”

“Gentlemen, _please_ do not organize a duel right in front of me!” It seemed that Washington had finally snapped.

Hamilton, however…

“Okay, sir,” he replied without a break in his glare at Laurens, “may you step outside this room, please?”

Looking as if he were about to go against the very advice he was giving, Washington half-shouted, “Hamilton, there will be NO DUELING!”

Tense silence fell, until what was unmistakably laughter came up from the Hell Room.

Neither Hamilton nor Laurens made to speak. Laurens’ reluctance was mostly due to pride, and a bit of shame from making Washington so frustrated. It may have been a mistake to say that Hamilton hadn’t made to speak, however, mostly since the man was mouthing out an angry speech rather than actually falling wordless. Because of course he was.

The question was, though, had Laurens really been ready to go out before dawn just because a rival had leveled some baseless accusation against him? A large part of himself was screaming in the affirmative, but some small minority opinion was trying to chill his pride.

And the smallest voice, that last voice, asked if it would even be a fair fight.

Ever since that day, when he’d frozen time with just a shout, something about his magic, well, his own magic _scared_ him.

He’d scoured through every book even slightly related to what was referred to as _‘magic’s favor.’_  Laurens found little but myth and legend. According to most sources, he must’ve had an affair with Hecate at some point, and that theory was easily shot down for _several_ reasons.

From what he could piece together, Laurens figured that magic’s favor meant his own magic would be more potent than others, and he would have an easier time than others in learning and creating spells. There was also, of course, the chance of spontaneous casting during times of heightened emotion.

(The clouds suspended in a blue sky, more like a painting than life. Birds frozen mid-flap. A child jumping in a puddle, caught in a shield of water. All of time caught up in the world like the breath in his chest. What a twist of fate, for time to be frozen on this day like it was on-)

Without warning, somebody loudly clapped their hands much too near Laurens’ ears, and he flinched back, placing his hands over his head instinctively. It wasn’t much of a surprise, however, when he saw Hamilton standing with hands outstretched, an annoyed look on his face. “If this conversation was boring you so-”

“That isn’t-” Laurens’ face fell, and he was unsure why he cared about that look that mirrored indignance, but maybe it was habit. “I get- lost, in my head, sometimes. I meant nothing by it, nor did I mean _for_ it.”

But Alexander’s face didn’t morph to annoyance or dismissal, just confusion. “I didn’t know you’ve seen battle before.”

Without knowing why he was talking (though perhaps Hamilton was wondering why he was listening), Laurens averted his gaze, and replied with a shrug, “surviving through certain days can seem like their own battles.”

In a curious manner, Hamilton jerked his chin up, and then lowered it slowly. Maybe it was some sort of attempt at a nod? Laurens honestly couldn’t tell. It seemed like Hamilton had to actively force it out, like some victim of possession fighting against a host.

“Anyways,” Washington awkwardly said to the now-silent room, “before the week’s end, try to have at least one occasion amongst yourselves where you do not need others physically restraining the two of you from fighting each other.”

Remembering the situation, Laurens regained his scowl. Nevertheless, he turned to face Washington fully. “Sir, I’m sure I’m needed in the He- _downstairs,_ sir.”

“Dismissed.”

“Yes, sir.”

 

* * *

 

Ever since Laurens had arrived, something had been missing from the Hell Room.

It wasn’t quite anything tangible, or that Laurens knew to miss, but it just wasn’t there. The closest metaphor Laurens could come up with was that it was like a painting with strokes that led to an empty focal point. An amused but rapidly fading atmosphere was present whenever Laurens walked into the Hell Room; awkward silences fell when someone looked up to share a joke but saw Laurens instead.

That was why, after a tense hour or so, Laurens was too stunned to speak when Harrison slammed down his pen and turned abruptly to Laurens. “What the hell was going on with you and Hamilton?”

For a moment, Laurens just sat like a deer in carriagelight.

(What had changed between now and just yesterday? Throughout all of Laurens time as an aide, none of the others had made to speak to Laurens besides formalities. Well, at least until he and Hamilton had their first- and disastrous- conversation. Who knew, anyways. Maybe the four of them had some sort of group initiation that involved provoking Hamilton to the point of dueling, and Laurens had disappointed them by taking longer than the rest of them.)

Luckily, though, Tilghman unintentionally came to his rescue. “You must mean what in the Hell Room was going on,” he corrected with a smile.

Meade hummed a note of disagreement. “If anything, it would be what _out_ of the Hell room was going on.”

Another quill came up from its page. Hamilton placed it down calmly after locating one of the few locations not fully covered by missives. He exhaled slowly, and clasped his hands as if in prayer, looking upwards with a pleading look. “You could’ve asked me what happened rather than Laurens,” he announced slowly, every syllable stressed with inherent exasperation. “It would’ve been easier- I am literally sitting across from you.”

“Hammie,” Tilghman said innocently, “what was going on with you and Hamilton?”

“I’m going to fight you. Wait one second while I take off my coat.”

When Hamilton actually began shrugging off his coat, Laurens was genuinely unsure whether or not he was supposed to laugh.  
(At the very least, if provoking Hamilton _was_ an initiation ritual, it wasn’t a very exclusive club.)

The rest of the aides merely rolled their eyes, and Meade, who had since been silent, said to Hamilton, “not now. At least wait until we’re done with the day’s work-”

This, however, was immediately realized to be a bad decision. Harrison and Tilghman slapped their respective hands over their respective faces. Meade, meanwhile, cut himself off to prevent any further damage, and walked out of the room. Laurens was beginning to think that Meade had a near-problematic proneness to abandoning difficult situations.

Hamilton, meanwhile, was frozen with an indignant expression on his face, but it also had some pure rage in his face. “There’s always more work to be done, we’re in a _war,_ goddamnit.” He reversed the removal of his coat, kicking his chair without any apparent purpose. “I can’t control what you do, but you can’t expect me to make excuses for myself when there are people out there dying, or healers in the medical tent awake night and day trying to heal or revitalize, or spies risking their lives to get information that could save others’-”

By this point, Hamilton looked positively distressed, but the rage remained. Harrison, looking almost tired, shook his head in an exhausted manner. “Ham, you do this to yourself every night.” Laurens looked at Hamilton appraisingly, and noticed more than a bit of weariness in his small, tightly-wound frame. “Meade meant that once we ran out of letters to reply to or to copy-”

“Then I need to start on my own letters or essays, there’s this _farmer_ who I don’t think I’ve shot down enough yet, and at least three Tory publications that need full responses, and letters to-”

“I’ll give you two letters,” Tilghman said in an easygoing manner despite a warning look from Harrison. Hamilton stood rapt, however, and didn’t seem to see Harrison. “The first is F, and the second is U. May we please get back to work?”

Logic should’ve stated that Hamilton would calm by the mention of returning to work, but logic seemed to have been kicked to the couch. Instead of fading, Hamilton’s anger increased tenfold, and Laurens lent away from the oncoming outburst. “You aren’t taking this seriously!” From his expression and mannerisms, it seemed that Tilghman might have thrown a punch without cause, and Hamilton was eager to set the points in his favor. Even then, his eyes were a bit too wild, voice too shrill. “You need to understand, I need to do this, no, I need to do more than this, and none of you are letting me and there so what if I’m taking the time out of my sleep to do it, because I _need_ to do it all!”

Silence rang for a few seconds following. It sat heavy in the air, like a pall, while Hamilton’s chest rose and fell noticeably.

Luckily, Laurens never much cared for silence.

“No,” he heard himself saying in an almost slighted way. “No, you don’t need to take time away from sleeping.”

With laser-focus, Hamilton wheeled towards Laurens. “You don’t get to speak.”

“Actually, yes I do,” Laurens said as he rose from his chair, crossing his arms. “You need to learn to pick your fucking battles. You can’t do anything right if you’re sleep deprived while doing it. Do you _want_ to be easily shot down and made a fool of?”

“No, but-”

“Goddamnit, Hamilton, we only just began speaking to each other today, give me a fucking chance to get my point across!”

“Prove that you’re worth listening to!”

“That’s what I’m trying to do!” Frustrated, Laurens buried his forehead in one hand. “Look, I’m not telling you that you need to calm down, I’m telling you that you need to pin that anger down on only a few targets at a time, or else you risk  losing your potency.”

Almost offended, Hamilton stuck up his chin. “I’ve been told I’m _very_ potent.” The reason he said this proudly was lost to Laurens.

Under his breath, however, Laurens muttered, “petulant, more like.”

Meade, who’d since returned with a glass of- well, it looked like _mead-_ that he regularly sipped at, began laughing. “My god, you two deserve each other.”

“About that,” Harrison spoke up hesitantly, as if afraid anything he said would cause Hamilton and Laurens to begin fistfighting, “what _was_ going on between you two?”

“I made sure the world knew the truth,” Laurens answered smoothly.

But that did not seem to satisfy Hamilton. “He rediscovered the spell that ancient Romans used for graffiti and used it to write ‘warning: highly infuriating individual’ on my _forehead.”_

At the flabbergasted looks Harrison and Tilghman gave, Laurens shrugged. “Am I wrong?”

Before anyone else could make to respond, Hamilton announced, “nobody answer that.”

“I had also placed an eavesdropping spell on him, since he kept talking about me and insulting me behind my back.”

“How did you find out?”

“You need to work on your subtlety, and that’s coming from the person who put graffiti on your forehead.” Laurens earned a few still-shocked chuckles from this, but he went on, “you just start _glaring_ at me. And then you start talking to Meade and he rolls his eyes and leaves and then you pout and murmur to yourself.”

As Hamilton sputtered in an attempt to come up with a believable yet blatant lie, Meade took another sip from his glass, Laurens attempted not to fall into hysterics, and Harrison and Tilghman were laughing uproariously.

“Whatever,” Hamilton said suddenly, _“whatever.”_ He briefly threw up his arms, but evidently thought it better to use them to push his chair back. Afterwards, he plopped down in his chair with residual anger, flexing his hands before grabbing a quill like a sword and returning to the missives he’d been working on, an insane determination in his eyes.

That, indeed, was a great compromise to how Hamilton had before been practically in a panic. It wasn’t as if Laurens had formed a plan that went beyond distraction, but even then, Laurens allowed himself  to feel a bit of pride.

After a moment, he allowed himself to retreat into the kitchen, where there sat a basket of scarlet apples. Laurens took one almost absentmindedly, more than happy to bite into it since he’d forgone breakfast that morning.

A few seconds later, Meade entered the kitchen. He gazed at Laurens almost appraisingly for a while (making Laurens fluster after the first five seconds, and turn away after the first ten), before turning towards the basket of apples. “Someone keeps bringing those in,” Meade said conversationally, leaning against a cabinet. “I don’t know who, none of the aides do, but it’s damn lucky that it shows up. None of us can cook for shit.”

Unfortunately, Laurens had just taken a large bite from his apple. He chewed just long enough for it to be awkward, but in due time he was able to speak again. “I bring them in,” Laurens admitted, watching Meade’s face as it morphed with realization, then confusion. Taking this as an invitation to elaborate, Laurens continued, “Sunday nights, I get the apples, and I distribute most of them to those in the medical tent or around the camp while everyone’s sleeping. I get seven for myself, enough for a week’s breakfast, and put the rest in a basket and leave it in the kitchen.”

“Why, though?”

Shrugging, Laurens replied, “Hamilton has writing to keep himself feeling useful, and I’ve got _this.”_ He nibbled a little at the apple, trying not to get any of the juice on his sleeves. “Keeps me sane when I’d so much rather be riding off into battle.”

That appraising look returned, and Laurens didn’t feel any better about it this time around. It lasted much shorter, though, Meade breaking the silence. “It’s a wonder you did what you did back there, you know.”

Bemused, Laurens asked, “what did I do?”

Meade gave a little awe-struck laugh. “Are you kidding me?” At Laurens’ small shake ‘no,’ Meade explained, “I have that conversation with Ham almost every night he’s awake enough to resist me and Harrison dragging him up the stairs. And you shut him down in record time."

It wasn’t clear if this was to be taken as a compliment. “If it had been me, it’s hard to transmute panic into calm. At least with anger, you can sit down and stew over it and still get your work done, and with distraction it’ll fade.” Laurens took a complentative bite of his apple, and then shrugged his shoulders, thinking to tell a bit more of the truth. “Also, he was being an idiot and arguing with him was the first thing that came to mind.”

After letting out a bark of laughter, Meade turned from the room and left. Laurens’ theory that Meade had an avoidance problem was only being proven in favor.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> tortured my friend for two hours rambling about how i didn't know how to split the chapters up. eventually decided to give you guys the longer first chapter and shorter second, since it flows much better.  
> Please bear with me, by the way, because I haven't done an upload-as-I-write fic since I was a fifth grader on wattpad writing a self-insert oc harry potter fic. In first person.  
> I like to think I've come a long way.  
> 


	2. A Lesson On Why You Place Your Damn Magic Blockers

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> a note about the chapter, it's mainly Hamilton and Laurens getting drunk together. if that bothers you at all, please contact me either through the comments or via tumblr and i'll give you a summary of the chapter.

The only thoughts that were going through Hamilton’s mind, currently, were _‘this is stupid and this is stupid and this is stupid.’_

But, Washington _had_ made a suggestion, and…

Hamilton rapped his knuckles on the door twice, and pushed it open when he heard Laurens’ voice say “come on in.” However, when Hamilton stepped in the room, Laurens only gave a bored, “oh,” from where he was sitting on his bed, barely looking up from a book.

“Yeah, _‘oh,’_ I know.” Hamilton rolled his eyes and then quickly launched into an explanation. “Washington said that we should have at least one meeting where we don't need others to physically restrain us from going for the other’s throats. Today wasn’t the best example, so I decided it was best to get that requirement fulfilled as soon as possible.” When Laurens remained seemingly unconvinced, Hamilton raised what he was holding. A bottle of alcohol was in each hand. “Come on. I’ve got drinks. Don’t look a gift horse in the mouth.”

Sarcastically, Laurens replied, “not looking the gift horse in the mouth did _wonders_ for the Trojans.”

Before he could stop himself, Hamilton half-shouted, “goddamnit, just take the free alcohol and talk with me for twenty minutes so I don’t feel guilty about not listening to Washington!”

Hamilton almost could’ve celebrated when Laurens huffed but set down his book. While the taller man was stretching to stand, however, he said, “that book I was reading? Says rituals depend on pronunciation.”

That, Hamilton wasn’t as quick to celebrate about. “And _I_ once read about a man who believed French to be derived from the croaks of frogs.”

By this time, Laurens had crossed the room. He easily plucked the bottle that had been in Hamilton’s right hand. “I can’t bring myself to blame him,” he said with a grudging nod. “Parlez-vous le français?”

“Je _suis_ le traducteur primaire des aides de camp. C’est important pour mon travail, non?”

As they began to walk down the stairs, Laurens let out a quiet bark of a laugh. “Un peu au moins, je suis sûr.” In a somewhat unfluid transition from French, Laurens continued, “it’s an excellent skill to have with the influx of French officers, you know.”

Hah. All of their positions were practically honorary, really. All of them could go rot in France or whatever, for all the spaces for promotion they took up. It was ridiculous and irritating, not to mention that dealing with them took up time that could've been spent _writing._

Without even attempting to remember the topic of conversation at hand, Hamilton began descending the stairs and asked Laurens, “do you write?”

“No,” Laurens deadpanned without hesitation, “I’m completely illiterate.”

“Do you write as a _hobby?”_

“No.”

“Why not?”

By now, they reached the bottom of the stairs and making their way to the sitting room. Laurens, who had a pace quicker than Hamilton’s and longer legs on top of it, practically skipped his way across the room- screw him and his height, honestly-  peeking through the doorways where he hadn’t yet memorized the floorplan.

Hamilton almost repeated the question at Laurens’ silence, but once he found the right door, Laurens finally responded, “I’m afraid I’m not the best at getting my point across.” Laurens plopped himself down on one of the sofas. “Not with words, anyways. I’m terrible at writing down what I say without regurgitating someone else’s… er, words.” As Hamilton sat in a chaise opposite of Laurens, the latter took a short swig at his bottle.

“Yeah,” started Hamilton with a bit of confusion in his voice, “okay, but it’s _writing._ You pick up a pen and write down what you need to say. Afterwards, you revise, edit, et cetera until a friend can read it and not need a drink to make it through without getting a headache.”

In response to that, Laurens let out an unbefitting snort, but gave no real response.

That was… slightly disconcerting to Hamilton. Concerned, he asked, “did I say something that made me sound stupid?”

His words made Laurens emit a low, humorless chuckle, which made Hamilton a bit uneasy. Neither of them spoke for at least ten seconds. It finally ended when Laurens looked up from his drink impassively and saw Hamilton’s expression. It was probably fairly troubled, to be frank.

Hamilton's brain was churning with possibilities on how he’d maybe mispronounced et cetera (did John prefer Classical or Medieval pronunciation? Wait, shit, no, he preferred _Classical,_ goddamnit-) or other things along that nature, so it would undoubtedly show on his face.

Finally, though, Laurens shook his head. “No. I just don’t think that your editing strategy would work out for me.”

“Well,” Hamilton started as he leant forwards to take off his boots, “why not?”

“If you couldn’t tell  from the past few weeks, I’m not the best at making friends.” He swirled around the contents of his drink, looking lost to the world. “Well, I had- er, _someone._ I had someone. I don’t anymore. But, er, where did you grow up? I was born in South Carolina, but it’s nothing too interesting; tell me about yourself.”

Without missing a beat, Hamilton gave a short smile. “No, go ahead, tell me about South Carolina.” He knew that Laurens’ father was influential, and was quite sure that would meant a pleasant conversation where Hamilton just had to smile and nod along to stories he couldn’t quite relate to.

That, however, was not at all what happened. “Really,” Laurens said a bit quietly, “it’s nothing too interesting.” It was obvious that he was nearing something akin to exhaustion. “Besides writing, do you have any other hobbies?”

“Economics and politics, mainly. Though, those just can be considered things I do write about.” He closed his eyes and took another sip of his drink.

It seemed as if they had finally found a topic they could settle on, though, when Laurens nodded. It wasn’t interested, but at least it was amicable. “I enjoy studying naturalism and such. Especially magical creatures and plants. Sometimes I draw them, if I have the chance.”

Reminded of his own artistic skills (or lack thereof), Hamilton gave a short chuckle. “There’s a talent I can’t conquer. Even if you know exactly how you want to do something, you can still make mistakes.”

Quirking an eyebrow, Laurens shook his head in disagreement. “You’re kidding, right?” When Hamilton gave a quick, “no,” Laurens rolled his eyes dramatically. “Sometimes, I know exactly what I want to write. I can feel it. I know exactly what it is, how I want to express it. And then I dip my quill in ink and realize that I can’t remember the right words, or the right metaphors. I don’t know how to add in those little details that complete it but not make it… er, overbedazzled.”

“You mean, that give it subtlety?” After a few moments of confusion, the meaning seemed to snap into Laurens head, and he groaned in frustration with himself. Hamilton snickered, but went on, “don’t worry, it’s something we both lack, I think.”

“It sure seems like it,” Laurens admitted, averting his gaze a little. “Though I think it’s less like lack of subtlety, and more like I’m quick to become _reckless._ Especially when I’m feeling nervous.”

At this, Hamilton perked up. “About that- I mean, about nervousness. Earlier today, when I became, er, abrasive about skimping out of work early-”

“No,” Laurens said as soon as he could get a word in, shaking his head ‘no’ a bit unnecessarily. “No. If you’re going to apologize, don’t.”

Involuntarily, Hamilton’s face scrunched up as though he’d been exposed to a sharp odor. “God, no.” He leaned back in his chair, staring up at the roof. “When I get angry or scared or just _nervous,_ I expand outwards. I yell or make a fuss or sabotage my own assets, even. Like sleep.” He paused, huffing as he tried to find the words. “Meade and the others try and tell me that I’m being an idiot, or to get my ass to bed. They’re always concerned because I’m bothering them, it feels like. And then the first time you see it when I have an outburst, you’re able to shut me down with logical arguments that address the ‘why’s instead of the ‘what’s. Hell, you made me realize that they _are_ outbursts that need talking down from. So, no. I won’t apologize. But I will say thank you.”

After a few seconds, Laurens burst out laughing. Mortified, Hamilton wasn’t quite able to speak, but was relieved when Laurens said, “oh my _god,_ I’ve actually managed to change _Hamilton’s_ mind!” The mortification was replaced by a mild annoyance that lingered even when there was that mutually-endowed amusement that arrived from seeing someone else acting jovially. “I should tell all the other aides. Goodness, I think that if this happened, maybe the grass will begin growing purple.”

“Maybe the king will apologize to his colonies and open his palace to the homeless,” Hamilton offered with a grin.

“Maybe I’ll cut off all my hair,” Laurens suggested.

Since Hamilton was a bit over tipsy, Laurens joke was funnier than it would’ve been. In Hamilton’s defense, Laurens’ affection for his hair was almost laughable. While it was fading rapidly due to wartime matters taking precedence, it was still a common sight to catch him mumbling to himself in front of a mirror as he patted his hair down. Blushing, with a soft and slightly sad smile and voice, Laurens said, “I’m not really _that_ funny. Or funny at all.”

Hamilton knew he was supposed to hate Laurens. He also knew that his reasons for hating the taller man boiled down to the fact that Laurens was condescending and unlikeable.

But condescending didn’t really describe somebody who sincerely shot down something that was barely even praise in the first place. Yes, it was true that Laurens wouldn’t stand for personal insults, but he didn’t seem willing to accept personal _compliments,_ either. To label that as condescending would be to break the definition of the very word.

And, as for disproving Laurens’ unlikability, well…

“I’m afraid it’s my fault that I don’t have the evidence to prove you wrong,” Hamilton admitted. He flexed his fingers around his bottle, and went on, “I created a false image of you in my mind without first getting to know you well. And because of it, I tortured you with stupid pranks and by insulting you behind your back.”

Somehow, though, this made Laurens fluster more. “At worst, you were being childish. Meanwhile, I invaded your privacy with an eavesdropping spell and also by _tattooing_ you without your permission.”

“To be fair, both spells were executed wonderfully, and I expect to be learning them from you in the near future,” Hamilton pointed out to/demanded of Laurens.

“To be fair,” Laurens said in a slightly slowed manner, “I _can_ sketch in color now.”

They both let out small chuckles, and Hamilton leant back his head, stretching his neck with his eyes closed. “Maybe we’ll learn to apologise to one another.”

“It’s obviously not that impossible,” replied Laurens. He seemed to become uneasy at the interruption of the conversation’s flow, however, and so he remedied his statement by saying, “but maybe we could tame an elephant, name it James, and _not_ have Washington attempt to rip our heads off.”

That was a good idea. Hamilton had always wanted a war elephant. He sighed a little after basking in the thought, and suggested, “maybe we’ll both fall in love with a Tory each.”

But something he’d said had been wrong. Laurens’ metaphorical defenses immediately were pulled up. His smile faded into something grim, his eyes settling on the floor.

Slightly worried, Hamilton leant forwards a bit. Since they were seated at opposite ends of the room, it was really a nonsensical move, but Hamilton did it without thinking. “Laurens, did I say something-“

“Hamilton,” Laurens said, in a voice that was like fresh snow, soft and inviting but _cold._ He didn’t continue, didn't say anything else, just Hamilton’s name before he downed most of his drink.

And suddenly, it struck. Hamilton's mind was working so fast he was surprised it wasn’t whirring like a hyperactive clock. Flashes appeared in his mind, and connections between them that he couldn’t _prove,_ but which he knew were inherently true. First, standing with outstretched hands while Laurens recoiled, holding his ears shut, looking like he’d woken up on a different planet. When Laurens had spoken a bit too loudly to Meade in the kitchen, how Laurens had explained with an _‘if it had been me,’_ like he was almost surprised that the outburst hadn’t been his. The quick avoidance from explaining who Laurens’ ex-someone had been. The almost _lost_ look on Laurens’ face.

The hints connected with each other, intertwined with each other, until Hamilton came to his conclusion. Laurens led a life of simultaneously feeling too much and not enough. Laurens’ familiarity with the so-called ‘outbursts’ that the two of them seemed to share proved this. This someone came along, and since their departure seemed so devastating, Laurens must’ve cared for them a lot. And then came the war, and that someone must’ve decided that Loyalism was worth more than Laurens.

And how dare they decide that?

“You fell in love with a Tory, someone who was your friend. Someone you trusted,” Hamilton said aloud.

Almost mechanically, Laurens looked up at Hamilton. “I’d always known that- that this _someone_ wasn’t ever as Republican as I was. I wrote Kinloch, at one point, an’ I tried to say that my love wouldn’t fade no matter how our views differed. But the response letter- it was subtle, so that I had to read it over, but between the _baseless accusations_ against republicanism, Kinloch said our relationship was to end.”

“Asshole,” Hamilton muttered darkly. “D'you want _me_ to write a letter?”

“I already did,” Laurens admitted a bit reluctantly. “And I graffitied a wall, back before I returned to the colonies, with something only he’s able to get.” Then, Laurens’ eyes went wide in an almost panic, and for once it took Hamilton a few seconds to realize what had just happened.

“Oh,” Hamilton said without thinking. He really _should’ve_ thought, because that lone ‘oh’ sounded stupid by itself. Wait, though, he could say more words and not have it be stupid anymore. “Er, so this means that I can duel Kinloch without feeling guilty. Good news, y’know.”

But Laurens didn’t seem to take it as good news. He just shook his head, and in an almost defeated voice, said, “You’re drunk, Hamilton. We both are.”

“First of all, ‘m barely tipsy. Second of all, so what?” Hamilton rummaged through a pocket in his coat for one of his featherless quills and a piece of parchment. He set his drink (now mostly empty) on the ground, and reached for the ink bottle he’d hidden behind one of the chair’s legs when they’d first set up shop in this house. It paid to be prepared “Third, he’s in England still, right? How am I supposed to organize a duel when he’s across an ocean?”

Looking a bit bemused, Laurens’ eyebrows furrowed. “Why’re you asking me?”

“You’re my second.” Hamilton said like he was explaining something to an otherwise bright child for the upteenth time. “Seconds offer advice, usually. You should get better at this.” On the paper he’d brought out, he carefully wrote at the top of the page, _dr. Kinlocke, fuck you._ Despite his care, however, the ink dried smeared and anything but elegant.

A sigh sounded, and then stumbling footsteps made their way over to Hamilton. The piece of parchment was ripped from his grasp, as was his quill and ink bottle. After Hamilton let out a squawk of indignance, Laurens lightly slapped the side of his head. “I’m not going to be your second, because there will be no duel.” Laurens set the materials on a nearby table just out of Hamilton’s reach, and sighed again.

“Why’re you sighing?”

“I wasn’t.”

“You did.”

“And how sure are you ‘f that?”

Without missing a beat, Hamilton grinned lazily and replied to the still-standing Laurens, “as sure as I‘m that rituals are defined by the requirement of a material outside of the user’s own body.”

Just when Laurens was about to respond, he stopped himself. Hamilton looked up, wondering what was occupying the man’s thoughts, but eventually Laurens began laughing quietly and shaking his head. Hamilton stopped wondering, letting Laurens’ actions go unanalyzed, even if for a few seconds. When Laurens had finished his somewhat confusing display, he reached out a hand to Hamilton. “Come on, stand up.”

(It did not escape Hamilton’s notice that, when he took Laurens’ hand, it was the first time they’d ever touched.)

“Well, thank you for helping me stand,” Hamilton said with a bit of a slur in his voice. When he was stood up, though, he began stumbling, somehow tripping over stationary feet. Laurens grabbed at Hamilton’s shoulders and steadied him, for the most part. For the other part, they were now _both_ swaying on their feet. “You’re quite the gentleman.”

“Don’t remind me,” Laurens replied, a little breathlessly.

And then, before Hamilton’s alcohol-riddled mind could really determine what was going on, Laurens’ hands were no longer on his shoulders but the sides of his face, and their lips were pressed together. It was clumsy, very clumsy. Neither of them could anymore be considered sober, which was evident from the sharp tang of beer that Hamilton tasted, new once more.

Almost before it had started, Laurens pulled away, with closed eyes and an expression that told Hamilton that he was letting the moment loop over in his mind’s eye. Hamilton was a bit dazed from the whole thing, not quite sure how it had happened.

Before he could decide, however, Laurens walked away fully. With a ducked head, it looked as if he was going to exit the room, but he stopped at the sound Hamilton couldn’t help but make in his throat. “You can’t jus’ leave me like that!”

“Hamilton, ‘m sorry, I-“

But Hamilton shushed Laurens, who obviously thought he’d made a mistake. “Uh, no. We’ve two options here, capiche?”

“No. No, I don’t capiche.”

“Two options,” Hamilton repeated a bit louder this time. “One, I monologue. Big, sappy monologue. Really, I shouldn’ even have to list this, ‘salways an option. Or, we can make out again. F’real, this time.”

Immediately, Laurens’ head poked up. “And this isn’ some joke? You aren’t going to get revenge for the graffiti?”

“Look, I’ll be honest, that was funny.” Hamilton paused as Laurens laughed to himself, so much happier than he had been just a few seconds before. “And, I deserved it. I let m’self take notes too quickly and I wound up depriving m’self of the most wonderful gift I could ever hope t’ give m’self. Never forgive me for that.”

Amused, Laurens walked over to Hamilton and put his hand over Hamilton’s mouth. “”We’ve been on speaking terms for less than twenty-four hours.”

Grinning dopely, Hamilton took the opportunity to place his hand over Laurens’ and drag it down. Sure, Laurens was right, but Hamilton tended to go into things all-or-nothing. Right now, though, holding Laurens’ right hand in his own two, close enough to see the flecks in his eyes, it was impossible to feel nothing. “You didn’ make a choice,” Hamilton explained. “Monologue or make out. So I chose monologue for you.”

And, like it was a dream, Laurens replied easily, “wrong choice.”

They stood for a while, locked with each other. Hamilton was quite unaware of anything but the man he held in his arms. Despite being drunk, he’d be just as happy sober, if only it had led to the same result. _Really, though,_ Hamilton thought as he let his mind wander, _Laurens and I had been unwinding about each other, and the drinks had just accelerated that._

But immediately after that reasoning, Hamilton’s thoughts were interrupted by flashes of… something else.

Clear as if they were his own (which they definitely weren't, they differed like brushstrokes between artists), emotions flashed through Hamilton’s mind. Excitement, happiness, questions and questions after questions- questions about sincerity, permanence, regret. A little sadness, like the kind you get while writing someone you miss a long letter, but wishing they were beside you so that you could _speak_ with them, instead. And, above all, an overarching _fear_ that seemed omnipresent. It loomed inescapably over everything else, like ancient oaks stained with blood from the hanged bodies of war criminals.

Hamilton made a sharp intake of breath and stepped back, but by the time his surprise even registered, his responses were vestigial. “I don’ know what came over me,” Hamilton said to Laurens.

It could be interpreted from Laurens’ face that the taller man knew perfectly well what had happened, but he didn't wish to speak about it. “It was- nevermind. Look, let’s just go down to the cellar. I saw some more drinks down there a while back.”

With a shrug, Hamilton agreed. Normally, he would’ve tried to inquire about whatever had happened some more, but Laurens looked miserable.

After the fact, neither of them could really remember what happened after arriving down in the cellar. They had drunk too much for their memories to be clear. While they both disagreed on the details, though, the two of them knew the overarching points.

Firstly, they got into their debate over the definition of a ritual. Each of them remembered coming to some sort of conclusion, some compromise over the definition that even managed to explain quite a few oddities in magical law. There was one clear memory from that, in Hamilton’s head, a great belly laugh from right after they’d figured it out.

They’d begun discussing their favorite rituals. Hamilton had a vague memory of Laurens listing off so many obscure, ancient rituals that were half-lost and fully dangerous. In response, Hamilton gave a few rituals that had only been found in his Tome, and maybe Laurens tried, and failed, to reproduce some of the more glottal sounds of Hebrew. Laurens, of course, vehemently disagreed that he ever attempted this.

Things got murkier after that. But, eventually, one of them suggested to actually perform a ritual. Hamilton thought it had been Laurens, and Laurens thought it had been Hamilton. No matter who’d first suggested it, they’d wound up in a small room off of the Hell Room, with sigils painted on the ground and their words said slowly, and then a flash.

After the flash, there was someone standing in the middle of the circular sigils.

And then, a snap.

Sudden sobriety.

Hamilton blinked, looking at the man in the sigils. There was a mark just underneath his left eye, a seven-pointed star. He had been the one to snap his fingers, his hand held at eye height. It was odd, though; sobriety spells required more than just a snap. Usually, Hamilton would connect this with sinister magic, but the man’s smile was truly, almost frighteningly genuine.

Beside Hamilton, Laurens cursed softly.

“What?” Hamilton asked, though the man- who was, strangely, wearing a Continental uniform- looked like he was about to ask the same question.

In lieu of a response, Laurens just pointed down at the sigils.

They were _Latin_ sigils.

“Oh my god we summoned a demon,” Hamilton realized, because, well, it was Latin.

“Drunkenly,” Laurens added solemnly. “We drunkenly summoned a demon.”

“Le démon,” the man said with an air of polite correction, “parle seulement le français.”

“A french demon,” Hamilton added, a bit confused. “Ah, nous parlons français, aussi. Qui êtes-vous?”

Somehow, the man’s- the _demon’s-_ smile brightened. He clasped his hands together, and spun around happily. “Oooh, merci merci, vous deux! J’ai voulu aller à ici, et je _suis ici,_ maintient! _Et_ vous parlez le français! C’est _parfait!_ Merci, merci, merci, _merci!”_

“Oui,” Laurens responded a bit coldly, “mais qu’est-ce vos nom?”

“Ah, bien sûr.” The man stepped out of the circle of sigils to shake Laurens’ hand, and then Hamilton’s. His smile never faded, but always seemed to continually grow brighter. After he’d shaken both their hands, he bowed, and once he rose, said, “je m’appelle Marie-Joseph Paul Yves Roch Gilbert du Motier de Lafayette, marquis de Lafayette.”

And then, the many-named demon’s eyes promptly rolled to the back of his head, and he collapsed.

Despite the suddenness of the fainting, Laurens managed to catch the man without so much as letting his knees touch the ground. As he struggled to keep the demon up, Laurens asked Hamilton, “we’ve got a problem on our hands, don’t we?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A note about latin in this chapter- classical pronunciation is better and all latin is demon summoning language. All of it.  
> i have been waiting for this moment since i wrote burr's line in stsgt ('we should do a summoning. of a demon'). i don't know why i decided to make him one. i really don't. but here he is. I hope the little prologue at the beginning makes a bit more sense now though lol  
> Hope you enjoyed!


	3. Frahencell, Wherever/Whatever That Is

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i'm. sorry.  
> last week was exams so i was a bit overwhelmed and couldn't finish the chapter in time. so, i reasoned, i'll switch to a post every-two-weeks basis and upload the weekend that starts my spring break. come tonight, when i look at my phone while cleaning up my room and see _holy shit it's sunday._ (((Oh, that's funny, now, because i just got back from editing (because i forgot to do that!) and now it's monday.)))  
>  Anyways, i'm pretty sure the french government is actually going to murder me for this chapter. i was already on thin ice with l'académie francaise with the last one, but this chapter? well. if i stop uploading you'll know why.  
> and just as a warning: blood magic is featured in this chapter pretty heavily, including the casting of it, involving ritualized self-harm. if this would bother you, stop reading at "that's it, im putting up a ___ ritual" and then ctrl+f for "the very moment that," or when the actual casting is finished. the effects of the spell are mentioned throughout the chapter.

“We’ve got a problem on our hands, don’t we?”

After a few seconds, Hamilton broke into a small grin. “Aw, I don’t think of him as a problem, just a puppy named Spike or Fang or Spike Fang Spike Fang, marquis de Fang, who, despite his formidable name, turned out to be scared of thunder.”

“All dogs are afraid of thunder, Hamilton. Even the formidable ones.” Finally, Laurens gave up on trying to throw Lafayette over his shoulder, since the latter was even taller than Laurens was, and resigned to laying the demon on the ground gently. “I must admit, I have no clue as to how we should react in this situation.”

“Do you think it would be funny if we left him in the Hell room?”

Staring down at the demon/frenchman, Laurens admitted, “I do feel like he would find it funny if he knew the context.” He knelt down besides Lafayette and began checking for a pulse. “While I can’t say I’ve summoned a demon before, this seems highly unusual.”

“I don’t think demons have pulses,” Hamilton said, unsure. “But I wouldn’t be surprised if he did. As with you, I’ve never exactly dealt with this sort of Latin spell before, either.”

“He’s definitely got a pulse,” Laurens confirmed. He sat back, now without a purpose, though slightly nervous. “I- I’ve always been taught that demons were dangerous and hated humans.”

Frowning, Hamilton walked over beside Laurens, who remained kneeling by Lafayette. “I was always told that they were just selfish. There’s no particular animosity towards humans, but demons just consider us to be easy pickings.” Hamilton waited for Laurens to respond, but when he didn’t, Hamilton picked up the slack in the conversation. “You know, maybe we should revive him. I know a spell.”

Raising an eyebrow, Laurens shot back, “and I know a ritual. Sanskrit?”

“Sanskrit.” With a bit of a huff, Hamilton insisted, “it’s a _spell,_ damnit.”

“I’m just going to cast it, instead of getting into this argument again.” Laurens waved a hand, motioning for Hamilton to step away. The shorter man followed suit, though he didn’t think that it was necessary.

The spell was three lines; long enough to be unusual but not enough to be worth mentioning. It was, in fact, the same spell that Hamilton was thinking of, so that halfway through, Hamilton began mouthing along to the words he didn’t fully understand.

Expectedly, when Laurens finished his spell, Lafayette sat straight up, gasping, as if waking from a nightmare. For a moment, Hamilton considered that maybe Lafayette hadn’t been enjoying a pleasant dream, from the expression on his face. But, quick enough so that it may have just been a flash of the light, his expression shifted to silvery joy.

Because Hamilton was positioned away from the other two, Lafayette happened to only see Laurens. The demon’s grin continued to grow brighter and brighter and long past impossibly bright. He jumped up and brushed off his breeches, though they were clean as could be.

Once satisfied that his outfit was free of dirt, he faced Laurens again, and clapped his hands together jovially. Without so much as a word, Lafayette walked up to Laurens and began making out with him.

“What,” Hamilton said flatly, as Laurens shot Hamilton a half-panicked, half-confused look. Not sure what else to do, Hamilton walked up to Lafayette and pulled him off of a still-bewildered Laurens. “Merde, Lafayette, non, vous devez lui demander avant vous… er, faites _ça.”_

“That’s it, I’m putting up a translation ritual.”

A bit taken aback, Hamilton didn’t really have the mind to protest. Hamilton watched Laurens take a small blade from a pocket before he had a chance to protest. “Laurens, don’t-”

But before Hamilton could even complete his sentence, Laurens had made a small incision on his forearm, red filling up the gap slowly. He cleaned and pocketed his knife before taking his right index finger and dragging it from the wound to make a ring around his arm like a bracelet. Once that was done, Laurens made a few markings around his mouth, and then let a bit of it drop onto his tongue. Finally, he chanted in a language Hamilton couldn’t get to hear, quiet and raspy, with closed eyes. In fact, it almost looked as if he were rocking back and forth to some deranged music.

There were some magics that Hamilton wasn’t sure should be used. Maybe they were dangerous, or could achieve disastrous effect with little effort. But blood magic? There was something inherently ritualistic about it. Hamilton didn’t care that technically, yes, the blood was a part of the caster’s own body. This wasn’t about definitions or clear-cut boundaries. Even just Laurens’ close-eyed swaying, entirely to the tune of the chanting like there was _no other_ sound in the world? It was terrifying, one step away from eating you up whole.

The very moment that Laurens stopped chanting, his knees buckled. Hamilton was there. “You could’ve hurt yourself even worse, you _idiot,”_ Hamilton hissed. “Get on the couch, I’ll patch you up.” Laurens just rolled his eyes, but disentangled himself from Hamilton and plopped on the sofa, which was luckily just a few steps away. While grabbing Laurens’ arm to bandage it, Hamilton turned to Lafayette. “Can you understand us?”

“Yes,” Lafayette said, pleasantly surprised. His voice, however, wobbled slightly. It was as if there were two of him talking at the same time, so he paused, confused. Hamilton summoned some bandages with a spell while Lafayette wasn’t speaking. “But your voice- my voice-”

“It’s the _ritual,”_ Hamilton muttered darkly. “It translates your voice into a new one and makes it louder than the old, but the old one is still there.” After bandaging Laurens’ arm and then sitting down himself, Hamilton rested a hand on Laurens’ forehead, and said harshly, “now, as for you, is using reckless, unnecessary, and dangerous magic a tradition from Europe, or is it from South Carolina?”

“It’s a John Laurens tradition. Now, can you quit babying me?” Laurens’ eyes were sulky. In fact, Laurens’ entire damn being was sulky, but his eyes were especially sulky. They’d been that way, really, since just before Laurens had set his mind on using the ritual.

“You nearly _fainted.”_ Hamilton placed a hand on Laurens’ forehead and muttered a spell under his breath to try and draw back in the energy that Laurens had _wasted_ on that spell.

Tired, Laurens told Hamilton, “blood magic blocks revitalization attempts,” before closing his eyes to rest.

And then, he closed his eyes, just before Hamilton could realize that Laurens must’ve known that before even casting the damn thing, and chosen to do it anyways.

Hamilton whispered another spell.

 

* * *

 

“You should not have done that,” Lafayette said slowly from an armchair he’d settled into after a few minutes of silence, enunciating each syllable. “The short one is right-”

Innocently, Laurens opened his eyes and asked, “sorry, Lafayette, which one of us is right?”

“The short one,” Lafayette answered. He pointed to Hamilton, who, while he was seething, still had his hand on Laurens’ forehead from his continuing effort to find an effective spell. (Laurens appreciated the thought, but it wasn’t working, and it wouldn’t.) “Blood magic can easily lead to disaster. And, it smells bad.”

“What?” Laurens tilted his head a little to the side, making Hamilton huff and go back to angrily attempting to heal Laurens. “It _smells bad?_ I don’t smell anything.”

“I didn’t mean to say smell, I meant to say _smell.”_ Lafayette’s face fell to confusion, but snapped up to a smile a moment later. “The meaning must be lost in translation. But, anyways, it’s something that humans uniquely don’t have. Most others can smell magics, though. And blood magic smells _terrible.”_

“Speaking of,” Laurens said, reminded of a long-standing question. “You’re really a demon? Like, you’re _completely certain_ you’re a demon?” Really, Laurens almost didn’t believe it, with how upbeat and _nice_ Lafayette was.

In response, Lafayette tapped the seven-pointed star underneath his left eye. “All demons have marks like these, unique to them. Considering the fact that I have one, and that I grew up in Frahencell-”

At the last word, Hamilton paused the spell he'd been stubbornly attempting. “I’m sorry, you grew up _where?”_

 _“Fra-hen-cell,”_ Lafayette repeated clearly. It almost rhymed with utensil. “It’s a beautiful place, but with the war going on over here, I felt compelled to do my part for the cause.”

Sighing, Laurens attempted to take Hamilton’s hand off of his forehead. However, his hand shook noticeably, and Hamilton didn’t budge. Laurens gripped Hamilton’s sleeve, hoping that eventually Hamilton‘s arm would weigh down enough that he would take it away. But all Hamilton seemed to see was Laurens’ shaking arm. “God, whatever happened to not driving oneself into the ground?”

“Why would I _ever_ listen to my own advice?” Laurens rolled his eyes, and turned to Lafayette. “I think what Hamilton was trying to say was that neither of us have heard of this Frahencell,” Laurens explained.

Even though he’d already been smiling, Lafayette perked up. “Of course, of course!” He yelled, slapping one hand over his forehead in good-natured self-ribbing. “You must know it as its two seperate names. See, where demons come from, it can be called Hell. But the thing is, is that Hell can also be called France.”

“What,” Hamilton and Laurens’ voices said in dry unison. After a moment or so, Laurens asked, very slowly, “so does this mean that… _all_ French people are demons?”

It was obvious that Lafayette was more than thrilled to speak about his home. “Well, first you must understand that most demons live in this other reality: Hell. It roughly matches this one geographically, except the only major population center is in what would be Hell’s France. That’s why the two are so synonymous. Only exiles would live elsewhere. However, we are able to scry into your reality. And, sometimes, though very rarely, we are Summoned here.”

“Like we did to you,” Hamilton thought out loud, gaze a bit vacant. But his head suddenly snapped back to Lafayette. “So, _all_ French people are demons?”

Tilting his head to the side, Lafayette eventually nodded. “France in this world is inhabited mainly by the descendants of Summoned demons who, for whatever reason, did not return to Frahencell. You can tell if somebody is a demon, for sure, by their having of a mark. Like I told you, all of us have one, and each is a unique combination of our parents’ own marks. There are a very small number of humans in your France though; mainly ambassadors, or even friends of demons.” As he talked, his smile grew less bright, and more dream-like, as if he already missed his home.

“I’ve visited Paris before,” Laurens announced blankly. “I’ve visited _Paris_ before. I- I had no clue.”

Kindly, Lafayette waved Laurens off. “It’s a very closely kept secret. There are many spells in place that detect non-demon outsiders, or so I’ve heard. It’s really nothing to be ashamed of,” he added quickly.

He must’ve seen Laurens’ face fall. Being told that you once visited a city that was pretty much made up by _demons,_ something that somehow escaped your attention? Well, that was a little embarrassing. “So,” Laurens began with a bit of a self-deprecating tone. “Are there any well-known contemporaries that have demon heritage, so that I might feel a little better?”

Tapping his chin thoughtfully, Lafayette racked his brain for a few moments, and then shrugged. “Nobody that I know has been summoned here,” he mused. “Well, except for- but we fell out of touch anyways…”

Maybe a little rudely, Laurens said, “who was it?”

“Well, you wouldn’t know him by his mark… His name is Thomas Jefferson-”

 _“BULLSHIT,”_ Hamilton yelled disbelievingly, jumping up to his feet and finally, _finally,_ taking his hand off of Laurens’ head in the process. However, it also jerked Laurens’ hand- the one that was still clutching Hamilton’s sleeve- forwards.

Most of Laurens’ vision went fuzzy, a sudden-onset migraine making his head throb. Luckily, though, it only lasted for a few seconds. Hamilton had gone into some rant about Thomas Jefferson that Laurens didn’t quite hear, but apparently, Lafayette wasn’t listening, either. Instead, the demon stared curiously, a bit alarmed, at Laurens. Lafayette sat up, still staring at Laurens, and Hamilton finally broke out of his speech. “Blood magic is draining,” Lafayette said in his slow, accented speech, “but it shouldn’t have affected you this much.”

“It’s always like this,” Laurens explained, more than a little peeved. He wasn’t peeved at anything in particular, but there was a part of him that almost wanted to pick a fight. With _anyone._ He was pissed at the situation, at reality itself, hell, at _magic’s damn favor._ He never asked for it, and having it made him so goddamn angry that he forgot how to take it out. “It’s nothing special.”

“Laurens,” Hamilton started, and Laurens pretended he didn’t hear the _plea_ in his own name, “I’ve- er, I’ve seen someone cast this spell before. They weren’t affected this bad.” Pity was cast in his eyes (and _no, Laurens, goddamnit, it_ wasn’t _just concern-),_ and he took a step back towards the sofa where the two of them had been sitting.

Stricken, Laurens leaned backwards a bit, making Hamilton stop immediately. “Well, then,” Laurens said coldly, “if you really think I’m weaker than that person, you can tell me directly.”

Shaking his head vehemently, Hamilton sat down next to Laurens, but otherwise kept his distance. “No. I meant that blood magic takes more out of you than it does other people. I can tell.”

“I’ve used that spell before,” Laurens muttered, not making eye contact. “It’s never been worse, nor has it been better.”

Without much warning, Lafayette raised his hand a little, trying to get everyone’s attention like he was in a classroom. Once Laurens and Hamilton turned to him, Lafayette cleared his throat, and told the two, “blood magic is known about by many demons. For us, it’s almost the golden standard for magic. And what drains out of you is typically proportional to the power of a spell. And translation magics, they are among the least powerful.” He stared, oddly, at Laurens, without his usual smile- or any emotion, really. It was unnerving. “I can smell your magic. Why is yours drained as much as Hamilton’s would be if he was to transmute a barrel full of dirt into gold?”

The answer- _magic’s favor-_ sat on the tip of his tongue. But how could he ever tell another person what he, himself, didn’t fully understand? And one of the potential confidants was practically just a stranger, the other a _demon._ At the time, it seemed impossible to trust either one of them. After a moment’s deliberation, Laurens answered, “how should I know?”

Frowning, Hamilton turned away from Laurens. “Have you ever performed more complex or powerful blood magic?”

“I do,” Laurens answered, not able to let the bitterness stay out of his voice, “on a regular basis.”

“It does not show,” Lafayette announced, surprised. When Laurens’ and Hamilton’s blank faces stared back at him, though, he elaborated on his shock. “The effects of blood magic, if cast repeatedly or often, can be smelled. It damages your essence, it leaves a scar, if done too much. I do not believe that you are lying, but that leaves me with a dilemma.”

With scrunched eyebrows, Hamilton looked over Laurens scrutinizingly. Laurens was almost amazed at the intensity of the look, Hamilton’s eyes darting back and forth, to and fro, as if trying to deconstruct a complex machine back down to its blueprints with only a gaze. Strangely, it didn’t feel odd to be on the receiving end of it. The metaphor was flawed, his look was concern and curiosity and cleverness, with nothing analytical or cold about it.

And finally, what seemed to be a lifetime’s worth of reasoning flowed out of Hamilton’s mouth, his eyes still locked on Laurens.

“You don’t have alternate manifest. I’ve seen you cast spells, rituals. You obviously aren’t magically stagnant. There are only two known instances of magic deviating, and I’ve just listed them. Having alternate manifest means you don’t have typical human magic. The opposite of that is having human magic. Magically stagnant people have no or too weak magic. But there’s no opposite to that, according to all modern rules of magic. But the two of us, we’ve established that the modern rules of magic aren’t always correct. Rituals don’t always reverse spells, spells don’t always reverse rituals. So magical stagnance- it has an opposite, doesn’t it?”

There was a growing horror in Laurens’ chest, something frozen and cold and _empty,_ that made his eyes widen and lips part. He stared back at Hamilton, only slightly aware of his head shaking back and forth.

Ever since that day, Laurens’ worst fear was that somebody else would find out about magic's favor. His own father couldn't look him in the eye without feeling intimidation. And how could Laurens blame him? His magic was _dangerous,_ especially considering his reckless nature.

No, that just danced around what he always knew to be true. _He_ was dangerous.

(Blood magic drained him so much because it was an equalizer- what you put into a spell, you had to pay it back. So when his damn magic put out more than it should've, when he hadn’t taken it upon himself to know his ‘strength,’ it was relieving to know that he could be kept in check.)

After a few moments, all Laurens could bring himself to ask was, “please don’t tell anybody.” To request anything else, above all _'forgive me,’_ or- most selfishly- _'don’t fear me,’_ would be unthinkable.

But Hamilton just showed genuine confusion. “You look like you've seen a ghost.”

“You can't tell anybody, _please.”_

“Okay,” Hamilton agreed, with the air of someone who didn't quite understand the importance of the situation. “But I don't-”

Without letting Hamilton finish, Laurens turned his head quickly to Lafayette, the motion making him a little dizzy. A bit desperately, Laurens pleaded, “you too. I don't care if I have to strike a deal-”

 _“Laurens,”_ Hamilton let out in a breath, scandalized. But Laurens didn't look away from Lafayette.

This was the least happy Laurens had ever seen Lafayette. Even surprised or curious or contemplative, a thin smile kept to his lips, and amusement stuck to his eyes. But now, Lafayette was positively _stricken._ “I would never accept a deal,” he announced finally. Laurens nearly cried out of loss before Lafayette continued, “but I will give you my word.”

And then, Laurens really _did_ cry. He shoved his head into his hands, closing his eyes so he didn't have to see his vision blurring. Really, he was relieved, so _very_ relieved. But he was also confused and worried and scared.

He was so wrapped up in the fact that _he should be safe he should be safe,_ that he forgot what happened when he was like this.

Without warning, the one candle lighting the room cut out. Laurens froze mid-sob, suddenly drained. The two others almost immediately summoned flames to their palms, judging from the sudden cracklings coming from around him and Hamilton’s whisper of a spell. “That was- that was me,” whispered Laurens, horrified at his lack of control.

“I will re-light the candle,” Lafayette offered, the couch creaking as he sat up.

Silence, except for Lafayette's footsteps, engulfed the room. The sound of the candle catching fought against the quiet, until Laurens let his own heavy breaths take up the room, shared with Lafayette’s footsteps.

Eventually, though, Lafayette’s footsteps stopped, right in front of Laurens. “Are you willing to look up at me, yet?” Lafayette’s voice was calm and inviting, that practically quintessential smile practically tangible in his voice.

Slowly, Laurens raised his head to face Lafayette, not bothering to wipe at his eyes. “Why you?” He didn’t know what he was asking until it came out of his mouth, and realized he was being a bit vague. “When you summon a demon, you aren’t able to summon a _specific_ one. So why you?”

That made Lafayette’s grin grow conspiratorial. “A technicality.” He kneeled in front of Laurens and Hamilton, though the latter man found himself too lost in thought to listen. “In order to be summoned, a demon must first pledge themself to somebody they believe will summon a demon. They may only pledge themsleves once, and they must be the first to pledge themselves to that specific person. I began scrying on the two of you a few weeks ago, when I became interested in the war, and I wanted to pledge myself to one of you. However, others had already taken claim to the both of you while you were children. But I took a chance; I pledged myself not to one or the other, but to the two of you, together.”

It was amazing to hear. Lafayette, who’d wanted so badly to come to this reality, had placed all his hopes on the unlikely chance that Laurens and Hamilton would work together to summon a demon. God, what would’ve happened if Laurens had slammed the door in Hamilton’s face, if they’d never gotten drunk and discussed rituals?

Lafayette, ever-smiling, stood from his kneeling position. He gently grabbed the sides of Laurens’ head and kissed him just at his hairline, and repeated the action with Hamilton. It was an obvious sign of gratitude, yes, but Laurens felt more like he should thank Lafayette for placing such strong trust in them. Shock, however, prevented that.

“Your magic,” Hamilton began with no preamble, looking at Laurens appraisingly. It was almost familiar by now, but Laurens didn’t want a part of it. At least, not the observations that came with it.

Before Hamilton could make to say any more, Laurens pulled him a bit forwards and brushed their lips together lightly, just enough to get Hamilton’s attention. “Anything but my magic. We can talk about anything else.”

A reluctant smile played at Hamilton’s lips, a remnant of the kiss. “I hate to admit it, but maybe we would all do better by getting some sleep.”

Laurens gave out a barking laugh, letting himself lean against the back of the sofa slowly. “I'm not sure if I can get up, right now. I still feel light-headed.”

Meanwhile, Hamilton stretched languidly, arching his back with a loud yawn. “I’ll carry you up,” he offered, voice distorted by his yawn.

That made Laurens laugh again. “No, you won't, Lafayette will.”

If Lafayette had been a dog, his ears would've perked up. “I will?”

Irked a little, Hamilton repeated, “he _will?”_

“Yes,” Laurens replied to the both of them, chuckling. “Ham, if you tried to carry me, I would crush you.”

In a mix of annoyance and amusement, Hamilton slapped Laurens’ knee. “And Lafayette wouldn't? He’s tall, but he’s all lank. Look at him, he couldn't carry more than two books at a time. Er, no offense, Lafayette.”

“Oh, you needn't exaggerate,” Lafayette grinned, “I can carry three.” Laurens was the first to begin his guffawing, but Hamilton soon joined in, and even Lafayette found amusement in his own joke. Laurens held out a hand to Lafayette, and before Hamilton could protest, Lafayette pulled Laurens up.

As Laurens expected, spots flooded his vision and his knees buckled, but Lafayette somehow kept him on his feet, even if Laurens felt like a puppet with cut strings. “Thanks,” Laurens murmured, though it came out more as an unintelligible grunt.

None of them moved for about ten seconds (just long enough for the spots to clear from Laurens’ vision) before Hamilton stood up as well. He shook his head a little, mouth a bit thin. “How much longer?”

“The ritual should break by morning,” Laurens said after a few seconds. It almost hurt to calculate the time, but he got it done anyways. He readjusted himself in Lafayette’s grip, able to hold a bit of his own weight now. “Would it be best for all of us to sleep in my room?”

“Sure,” Hamilton shrugged.

While he did begin walking, Lafayette let out a small noise of confusion. “All three of us? In one room?”

“I don't share my room with anyone else at the moment. The rooms were set up to be shared by pairs, and I came while there was an even number already.” With a raised eyebrow, Laurens glanced at Hamilton. “I seem to remember that you said I arranged it on purpose so that I didn't have to listen to your plebeian voices outside of necessity.”

Amazed, Hamilton stopped at the base of the stairs. “I remember that. That’s what I said, _verbatim-_ er, that's not the point. I was an idiot and your revenge spell was apt and a piece of magical marvel.” He looked up the stairs, and back at Laurens, who was surely already flushed from exertion. “Lafayette, could you fully carry Laurens up the stairs? I think just supporting him might not be enough.”

“Yes.” Lafayette murmured to Laurens, about how he was going to do this and that and Laurens could he please bend his knees. While Laurens tried to obey whatever he heard, standing while magically drained was a bit harsh on his ability to focus. But before he knew what was happening, Lafayette had him in a bridal carry. While his vision went fuzzy again, he heard Lafayette's voice ask, “so, could one of you explain to me about that magical marvel?”

The up and down of Lafayette's steps gave Laurens a migraine, but distantly, he heard Hamilton's voice coming through, saying, “since I said that he didn’t want to hear our plebeian voices out of necessity, meaning work, he somehow constructed a series of spells or rituals that detected if something I could hear was work-related or not, and if it wasn’t, I would be deaf to it. It was frustrating, but it was magical _genius.”_

“Mmhm,” Laurens muttered in agreement. “Better’ve been. Took a while.” He looked over where they were, and then nodded his head towards a door. “That one.”

“I could’ve recognized it for you,” Hamilton said innocently, as if the reason he recognized the door _wasn’t_ because he had snuck in there many times for some prank here or there. “Laf, go ahead and put Laurens on his bed. It’s the one that looks like a cyclone hit it.”

“You’re one to speak,” Laurens shot back. Lafayette slowly placed Laurens on his bed sitting up, which did a wonder for not giving him a migraine. “Lafayette, you can- er, sleep on the empty bed.”

Shaking his head humbly, Lafayette put both hands up in protest. “Nonsense, I’ll sleep on the floor and Hamilton can-”

 _“NO,”_ Laurens and Hamilton whisper-yelled in unison. “I mean,” Laurens continued, “nobody has to sleep on the floor, and you’ll probably end up taking that bed anyways.”

From where he was standing, Hamilton walked over to Lafayette and clapped him on the shoulders- well, on the upper arms. “Hear that? You’re going to be staying here, helping with the war effort, making friends, and probably learning English.” He pushed/guided Lafayette over to the empty bed, a smile on both of their faces. It was almost too much for one room. “In the morning, we’ll try and work out all of the logistics, which shouldn’t be that hard since with the amount of French officers already serving there should already be procedures in place…”

By the time Hamilton had trailed off, Lafayette had practically collapsed onto the bed and passed out immediately. Hamilton looked down at him with something like wonder, laughing softly at how he was sprawled on the bed like a very tired, demonic starfish.

Whispering so as not to wake Lafayette, Hamilton turned to Laurens and said, “look at him! He’s _adorable.”_

“I’m concerned you actually think he’s a puppy,” Laurens deadpanned. But he let his face soften a little. “You were serious about sharing a bed?”

“No take backs,” Hamilton said with a finality and authority that didn’t suit his childish words. He fell back on the bed, evidently exhausted. “Do you think we’ll get hangovers even if we were magically sobered?”

Rolling his eyes, Laurens yanked slightly on Hamilton’s arm. “Come on, let’s lie down. Kick off your shoes, I don’t want dirt in my bed.” Laurens had done the same to his own shoes hours ago, back before Hamilton had even knocked on his door. Once Hamilton had managed to detach his shoes from his feet, Laurens laid down, letting out a fast breath as the sudden movement messed with his head.

“You really shouldn’t have done that,” Hamilton said, laying down as well. They were both on their backs, lying on top of the sheets and looking up at the ceiling. “I can tell by your accent while you’re speaking French that you’re practically fluent.”

“Sometimes I don’t like to speak it,” Laurens admitted, closing his eyes. “Reminds me of someone back from Europe. Sometimes it’s better just to face the consequences of the ritual.”

“Kinloch?”

“No- well, him too, actually. Can we talk about something else?”

“I thought we were going to sleep.”

Laurens smirked. “I thought you wanted to talk. Isn’t that what we’re doing?”

“Okay,” Hamilton replied, propping himself up on one elbow in order to face Laurens. “Let’s talk about something else.”

Smiling, Laurens said, “I have a feeling that you already have an idea for a topic. Something interesting, I hope.”

“Everything interesting, actually.” Hamilton seemed to be much more suave when sober, especially so when he leaned down for a quick kiss. “Us.”

With only a well-placed elbow, Laurens managed to remove Hamilton’s suaveness. “There’s nothing much to discuss,” he said evenly, closing his eyes to go to sleep.

More than a bit alarmed, Hamilton asked, “what do you mean by _that?”_

“Well,” Laurens said, opening his eyes. He was a bit bemused by Hamilton’s insistence on the negative side. “We _are_ in the same bed, aren’t we?”

There was a slap at Laurens’ shoulder. “Do you enjoy freaking me out?”

“For now,” answered Laurens.

“Only for now,” Hamilton agreed.

The present had never seemed farther away. The future had never seemed more comforting.

They slept.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> if ur french feel free to ask for an apology bc i owe u one


	4. Language Barriers: The Chapter

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm getting this posted about 2 hours until the weekend officially ends. God, i have excellent time management skills, don't I? but hey i was having trouble writing ham and lau's dialogue because twice they talk about inherently opposed idealogies and i had a hard time not picking a side myself lmao.  
> Also, I feel like i should adress a certain topic. This story hasn't drawn heavily from the musical in a long, long time. Maybe since someone to say goodbye to. Since then, my view of this universe has shifted to something along the lines of a second adaptation? While this story features far more historical detail, I see that only as a benefit of my medium. ie, there's only so much one can fit in a musical, but writing is usually chosen FOR its detail. That being said, the rev. war timeline is going to be exceptionally fucked up (even if this was going to be historically accurate, im 98% sure i have a sort of chronological dyslexia so in this case it's just more fucked up). I may update the fandom for the series if this detail gets shone in the limelight any more, or if everyone thinks it would be a good idea. Go ahead and comment what you think, I guess, and I'll just do whatever.  
> Anyways, I hope you enjoy the chapter!

There was a slight squeak in the air that woke Hamilton up. The door was being opened, painfully slowly. He kept his eyes closed but ears alert, trying to figure out who or what was entering the room. A floorboard creaked, but he wasn’t sure if it was just the house shifting under the warmth of the morning sun or not.

Beside him, Laurens also awoke. Just like Hamilton, Laurens did not startle or open his eyes, just continue to lay still. The only way that Hamilton even knew that Laurens had woken up was that, somehow, Hamilton had placed his head on Laurens’ shoulder during sleep, so that every breath and heartbeat was up against his ear.

They both listened as the door was pushed shut with a soft _click!_ by the visitor. A few more muffled footsteps...

And then, Meade began laughing.

Hamilton sat straight up like a bullet. “You _ass,”_ he whispered, seeing that Lafayette had managed to remain asleep. “I thought you were some sort of murder person!”

From where he was still lying on the bed, Laurens innocently asked, “did you mean _an assassin?”_

In one swift motion, Hamilton pulled the pillow from under Laurens’ head and shoved it towards the taller man’s face. Laurens, of course, had quick enough reflexes to block the attack, but Hamilton kept pushing. Meade just laughed louder. “My god,” he said between spouts of laughter, “I walk in to see you in the _same bed,_ yet somehow nothing’s changed.”

Meade seemed to be ignoring the fact that both Laurens and Hamilton were fully clothed, sans shoes. While Hamilton took the time to look dryly at Meade, Laurens took the opportunity to surge upwards, pushing Hamilton backwards and onto the bed. Somehow, Laurens also managed to gain possession of the pillow. He finally turned to Meade, and said in an almost practiced tone, “nothing happened. As you can see, there’s a guest in the other bed, we didn’t want to wake you, and Hamilton gets whinier than I’m willing to deal with when he’s told to sleep on the floor.”

A bit blankly, Meade repeated, “there’s a guest- there’s a- in the other bed?” He turned around, utterly bewildered, to see Lafayette. It must’ve been a shock to see a strange man just about taller than the bed was long sleeping soundly in your co-worker’s bedroom. And, no matter Hamilton’s’ attempts to dissuade Meade, there was _something_ that had _definitely_ happened between Hamilton and Laurens. But add on the seeming tattoo on Lafayette’s cheek. Bound to become odd, right?

 _Now_ acknowledge that Meade had studied demonology before the war, and so must’ve known exactly what a demon’s mark looked like.

In the most Meade-like fashion possible, he calmly exited the room without speaking.

Groaning, Hamilton lightly threw the pillow at the still-lying-down Laurens, and then fell forwards on his face. “I’m going to just go back to sleep.”

“Good, then get under the blanket. I’m _cold.”_

“Fine, but you’re being a bit whiny about it.”

“Oh, I thought you were going back to sleep.”

“Fine, fine.” Though slightly miffed, Hamilton tried to put himself in a comfortable position (which was of course put off course by Laurens giving him a sharp elbow when he wouldn’t sit still).

With his luck being what it was, as soon as he was settled suitably for sleep, Meade returned. With Tilghman and Harrison behind him. “-guys, look, the mark on his cheek-”

Again, Hamilton felt Laurens’ breath against his ear. He’d let out a soft scoff, but otherwise laid still. Quietly, so as to not alert any of the others that they were lying there, Hamilton grabbed the blanket and dragged it over his and Laurens’ heads, not willing to get out of bed at _this_ hour.

 

* * *

 

Lafayette, meanwhile, woke up to a light poke at his cheek. He opened his eyes and sat up automatically, never one to stay in bed for too long.

The touch had been quick, though it had been at the very center of his mark. It hadn’t hurt, but it shocked him very much. Marks were personal, intimate things back in Frahencell; it wasn’t touched by another unless they were rather familiar with the mark’s owner. But now that Lafayette wasn’t in Frahencell anymore, he understood that the same taboo was not held, and that the touch had probably just been initiated because of tactile curiosity. He stared up, sleepily, at the three men who now surrounded him. None were Hamilton, nor Laurens, but they _were_ wearing patriot’s garb. They could be trusted, then. “Bonjour,” he said with a yawn, placing a hand over his mouth. “Êtes-vous amis des Hamilton et Laurens?”

All Lafayette received in response were three blank stares.

“Euh, parlez-l’un de vous le français?”

One of them was kneeling- he’d been the one who’d poked Lafayette’s face. After a while, the kneeling man cocked his head to the side, staring uncomprehendingly at Lafayette. “I think he’s speaking French.”

There was one word in there that Lafayette understood. “Oui! French!” Well, he’d tried to say ‘French.’ It came out more like ‘Fwents,’ at least to an English speaker.

“Did he just call you a wench?”

“You idiot, he called him ‘friend.’” The man currently speaking was standing near the door, as if ready to bolt. The person he was addressing was standing right behind the kneeler. The door man switched his focus to the kneeler, though kept an eye on Lafayette. “Meade, how do you think he got here?”

While he was unable to decipher the majority of the sentence, he did catch one part- the _name._ Joyously, Lafayette pointed at the kneeler. “Êtes-vous Meade?”

“Uh, yeah,” _Meade_ said a bit cautiously.

“Parfait!” Exclaimed Lafayette, clasping his hands together celebratorily. “Et les autres?” To get his point across, Lafayette pointed at the door man and the standing man, in turn.

Confused, Meade pointed back and forth at the other two. “Their… Their names?”

“Vous vous appelez Meade, et ils ses appellent..?” Again, Lafayette gestured to the other men.

“Er, eel suh zapple Harrison,” replied the door man- Harrison- awkwardly. He pointed at himself at an almost obtrusive amount. It was almost comical, combined with the unpracticed attempt at French. Harrison’s noble try didn’t go unappreciated, though. In fact, it made Lafayette's heart swell in appreciation that Harrison tried. He could practically taste the sugar in the air, the attempt was so sweet.

Aware of a smile practically splitting his face in two, Lafayette pointed at himself. He faltered for a second, before remembering that Hamilton and Laurens had only taken to remembering _one_ of his names. It felt amazing to have a nickname. The human phenomenon had always intrigued him, since demons practically only used marks for identification. He understood that nicknames were typically used by long-time friends, but Meade and Harrison and the other man were all deserving.

“Lafayette,” he announced, pointing at himself proudly. “Je m’appelle Lafayette.”

The last unnamed man in the room furrowed his eyes. “Did he just say ‘jam apple?’” Meade swatted at the speaker’s shoulder. “Ouch- er, sorry. Hello, Laughing It. I’m Tilghman.”

Not quite sure what he just heard, Lafayette echoed, “Laughing… It?”

The other three began laughing heartily. Harrison even moved away from the door, slinking like a stray gazelle back to its herd. It made Lafayette crack up, too, placing a hand over his mouth and snickering shamelessly. “Hey, hey,” said Harrison between breaths, “does anybody know that midair erasable parchment spell? So we can draw shit out?”

Eyes furrowed in concentration, Tilghman lifted his head in thought. “Laurens uses that one all the time. Where is Laurens, anyways?”

Before Lafayette pieced together what was being said, Meade began giggling and tried to exit the room, but found himself blocked by Harrison.

“Laurens?” Under the translation ritual, Lafayette had heard Laurens’ name under French pronunciation. With some thought, he tried to say the name in an English accent. “Laurehs? Laurehs et ‘Amito?”

...Lafayette was not known for having an excellent English accent.

Maybe a bit confused, Tilghman repeated, “Laurens and Hamilton? Is that what he said? And he remembers them as a _pair?”_ Meade tried again to get to the door, but he was laughing so hard at this point that Harrison only needed to hold out an arm to stop him from going out the door. After a few seconds, he shook his head, almost in shock. “As a _pair._ ”

Lafayette couldn’t understand what was going on. He thought he heard the word for the fruit _pear,_ bit he wasn’t certain. After all, what did pears have to do with Hamilton and Laurens? And what was Meade so amused by? A bit incredulously, Lafayette asked, “ils dorment dans ce lit, non? Les avez-vous égaré?”

Two faces ( the two that were _not_ half-collapsing from laughter and trying to run out of the door) looked oddly at Lafayette.

Blinking a bit, Lafayette put his hands over his face. “Mon dieu, vous les avez égaré.”

“What?” Tilghman looked over to Harrison, who was still clutching onto Meade’s sleeve half-heartedly. “Harrison? What did he say?”

“I’m not French,” Harrison replied, almost offended. He dropped Meade, who had begun laughing so aggressively that he was using Harrison as a support to stand. Er, at least, he _had_ been. With a cross of his arms, Harrison faced Meade as well as one could when the recipient of the gaze was curled into a fetal position on the floor and laughing hysterically. “God, I should’ve let you run out. Do you at least know what happened to Laurens?”

“Oh, god,” Meade sputtered out between breaths. He was finally calming, though, holding up a single finger as if to tell time itself to chill out. “Okay, okay, just, one second.” He waited again, for ten more tense seconds, before whispering a muffling spell. With the aid of the spell on his side, Meade got up and walked over to Laurens’ bed silently. Then, he looked back to Tilghman, Harrison, and Lafayette conspiratorially, before his lips moved without sound, and-

Suddenly, the room was filled with the ringing of a hundred bells and alarms overlapping. Out of shock, Lafayette jumped backward on the bed, slamming his hands over his ears. The noise was especially unpleasant since demons were able to hear a good amount of sounds that humans couldn’t. After all, demons with a trained ear could distinguish a human’s heartbeat. _To tell if they’re lying,_ Lafayette remembered being told.

While Harrison, Tilghman, and Meade all seemed unaffected by the noise, the former two still let out a few alarmed shouts. Because, as Lafayette had said, Hamilton and Laurens were in the same bed.

Obviously.

Combined with the yells and surprised shouting going back and forth, the noise became just enough for Lafayette to close his eyes, as if the inability to see would block out some of it. He knew he must’ve looked silly, sitting curled up on the bed with his ears and eyes pressed shut, but it was all he could do to not exit the room, and he wouldn’t be sure where to go if he did that.

Amidst the clamor of the men all arguing with each other and their hearts racing quick and the bells sounding over and over and over each other, Lafayette heard Hamilton’s hissing voice. “SHHH! Guys, shut up! And get rid of the bells!” The listeners did not pause to accommodate, and the bells were shut down almost immediately. Hesitantly, Lafayette opened his eyes, curious as to what had caused Hamilton to make his friends stop. “Laffe, vas-tu bien?”

Hamilton and Laurens were both turned towards Lafayette, Meade was mysteriously gone, and Harrison and Tilghman were still looking, amazed, that the two had finally warmed up to each other, and so quickly. Hamilton had propped himself up against Laurens, the former still lounging on the bed and the latter with his feet touching the floor.

It finally clicked that Hamilton had noticed Lafayette hadn’t reacted well to the noisemaking spell. But that isn’t what Lafayette really noticed. “C’est… euh, vous ne me vouvoyer plus..?”

“Non,” Hamilton replied with some amusement, readjusting himself on Laurens’ shoulder. “Tu peux me tutoyer, si tu veux.”

“Oh,” Lafayette said, feeling a grin fight its way onto his face. Admittedly, that smile was always fighting for a spot on his expression, but it was especially prominent now. “Euh, puis-je faites ça?”

“Sûr,” Hamilton said easily.

Overjoyed, Lafayette pushed up off of the bed, stretching his arms up and out, and then walked over to the bed where Hamilton and Laurens were still settled. Lafayette sat down and, without a second thought, grabbed Hamilton’s face and kissed him.

“Oh god, not again,” Laurens murmured, and then he shoved his arm between Lafayette and Hamilton.

Confused, Lafayette looked between Hamilton and Laurens. “Quoi? J’ai demandé cette fois-” The realization struck him like a lightning strike. “Ooooh. Tu parlais de-”

“Oui,” Hamilton said awkwardly.

The three of them sat in silence, until Harrison exclaimed, _“again?”_

Strangely, even Lafayette felt the shift in the air as the door creaked open. “Harrison,” said the new voice, “do you mind telling me what, exactly, happened again?”

With one look at the man, Lafayette knew it was the Commander-In-Chief. Almost on instinct, Lafayette stood and bowed, saying, “bonjour, monsieur.”

There was a thread of anxiety stuck in the General’s voice. “How did this French officer get in your bedroom, Laurens?” He took a closer look at the bed Laurens was lying in, and seemed to register that Hamilton was lying there too, as had been Lafayette. He let out an exasperated breath, explaining, “when I said to have an occasion amongst yourselves that did not include each of you being physically restrained from murdering the other, I didn’t mean ‘seduce him and have a threesome with him and a tattooed man who can’t even speak English!’” He drew his hand over his face, but froze. “He… can’t speak English, right?"

“We didn’t have a _threesome,”_ Laurens replied at the same time Hamilton simply said, “no.”

“Whatever,” replied the General, “I need you two to go around camp and take inventory on all the essentials. Clothing, food, weapons, and the like. After you do that, come to my office. If you get _lost_ on your way there, it’s the tent with the blue flag on the top-”

Hesitantly, Tilghman butted in. “Actually, Your Excellency, some of the men got drunk two days ago and they stole the flag from atop the tent.”

“I’m beginning to become a prohibitionist,” the General said world-wearily, yet still giving a sharp look to Hamilton and Laurens. “Find the tent, somehow. After doing inventory.” With one last look towards Lafayette, Washington exited the room.

Instantly, Hamilton and Laurens both began melting into pools of liquid anxiety.

“Oh my god, he’s going to make me work under _Mifflin-“_

“I’m going to get court martialed-”

“I’ll _never_ get a command-”

“My father will _kill_ me-”

“Mes amis?” Laurens and Hamilton both stopped as if frozen. Hamilton was running his hands through his now-loose hair, and Laurens had his arms crossed tightly, as if he was trying to press his arms into his torso. “Mes amis,” he repeated once he had their attention, “qu’est-ce-“

Before Lafayette could finish, both Laurens and Hamilton turned away and hurried out of the room.

He stood, mouth still open from speaking, Tilghman walked up to Lafayette, putting a hand on his shoulder. “They’re just stressed right now,” he said in a calming tone, even though Lafayette couldn’t understand him.

It took a few seconds for Lafayette to realize he was staring blankly at Tilghman. He put on a smile, as he did so often, but this time it felt _wrong._ “Je ne parle pas l’anglais-”

But Harrison walked up behind Tilghman, waving a hand dismissively. “That’s okay. Tilgh? Should we show him the, er, _work_ room?”

“Of course,” Tilghman responded, nodding. Lafayette tried to remember that as an expression of affirmation. Tilghman gave a quick gesture to Lafayette. “Come on, follow us.”

From Tilghman’s hand motions, and Harrison’s nod of the head, Lafayette reasoned that he was supposed to walk behind them as they moved out of the room. The two of them were talking rapid-fire English, cracking jokes and laughing but always, _always_ looking back.

From this simple act, he found his smile reforming in a way that made sense again.

 

* * *

 

They’d walked right out of his room together, out the hall and down the stairs and out the front door, before Hamilton suddenly grabbed Laurens by the arm and pulled him aside. “We have a situation.”

“Obviously,” Laurens replied. After a little bit, he scoffed at nothing in particular. Well, he didn’t scoff at anything that had been said aloud; instead, he was scoffing at a lot of other things. Himself, their past conversations, Hamilton, the goddamn _situation_ they found themselves in, and the inexplicable urge to take Hamilton _(and,_ said some distant voice in his head, _Lafayette, as well)_ far, far away from these people and this war. Hell, Laurens even saw Hamilton’s eyes dart around the treeline and around the patrol, as if he were already planning an escape route.

Laurens thought it was nice to have evidence that he wasn’t the only person becoming nearly overpowered with cold dread.

“I don’t understand why this happened to _us,”_ Hamilton began, eyes diverted and filled with almost childish indignance.  “We’re both good at our jobs and work hard. We’re not redcoats, and we aren’t some terrible arsonists or murderers. Why not anyone else?”

Biting his lip, Laurens crossed his arms in some automatic attempt to make himself smaller. “Shit happens, Hamilton, and it isn’t always our fault.”

“No.” Hamilton shook his head, and mirrored Laurens’ crossed arms, but with more of a combative gesture in mind. “Good things happen to those who work. Bad things happen to those who don’t.”

 _“Usually,”_ Laurens shot back, “good things usually happen. Bad things usually don’t. We’re good people, mostly, at least. You said it, we work hard. But something _bad_ has happened to us, and it isn’t because we got anything wrong. The sooner you accept that, the easier.”

“I don’t believe in luck. You and I _both,_ we got here because we worked harder than everyone else. It _isn’t right_ for this to have happened to us,” Hamilton countered, not standing down.

(It was strange, though. Neither of them were standing down, each of their mannerisms were antagonistic, but they both knew they weren’t having an argument. Everything suggested it, but it was a false shadow. This was what others would call a discussion. They were each telling the other their thoughts in the only way they knew how. They had beliefs guarded so closely to themselves, that they’d only brought them out when in need of a defense while in a serious debate, behind harsh looks and clenched fists and gritted teeth.

So, within less than forty-eight hours of knowing each other, that was the only way they knew to talk to each other about these sorts of things. With harsh looks and clenched fists and gritted teeth. Eventually, one of them would miss a step in their programmed behaviors. They’ll freeze at how strange it is for the both of them. And then, hesitantly, they would move on. And there would be another slip-up, and another, until, between the two of them, it _became_ their programmed behavior.

God, Laurens couldn’t wait.

And, in the present, Laurens saw Hamilton’s face, and, somehow, each knew the other was thinking the same thing.)

“Come on,” Laurens said, after a silence that must’ve lasted hours. “If we don’t do inventory, we’ll be in even _deeper_ shit with Washington.”

“But then again,” Hamilton said, a slyness creeping into his expression, “if we do this too quickly, we’ll actually be sent to work with Mifflin, for real.”

Laurens made a face. “Maybe it _can_ wait.” Making a motion for Hamilton to follow him along a path near the treeline Laurens said, “I know a spot.” He looked behind himself as he began walking, seeing Hamilton attempt to move like he was a ninja.”You idiot,” Laurens said affectionately, “Walking like that is for when you’re somewhere you can’t get seen. Right now, we just don’t want people to notice that we’re going somewhere different than usual. In situations like this,” he walked up to Hamilton, and fixed the other man’s coat folds, “we want to walk _normally.”_

“You seem to know a lot about sneaking around, Laurens.” He said it playfully, with a raised eyebrow as he began walking. “I’ll bet you’ve snuck around a lot.”

Letting out a small laugh, Laurens shook his head rapidly. “Not in the way that you’re implying, no. It’s just an occupational hazard of strict father and a love of getting myself into trouble.” A few more steps, and…

“Over here,”  Laurens announced, pressing his hand into the bark of a tree. He left it there for five seconds, and then motioned for Hamilton to step into the tree. “Illusion magic,” he explained when Hamilton seemed hesitant. You’ll step out onto a path, and then I’ll be there right after you.”

Almost anxious, Hamilton pursed his lips. “Any chance of you going first?”

“It would close behind me, and you would be stuck out here.”

“Alright,” Hamilton agreed reluctantly. He sucked in a deep breath, and then walked straight into the tree. And, of course, Laurens walked in behind him. Stepping through and feeling the false tree solidify behind him was such familiar sensation that he almost sighed in contentedness from the feeling of safety it brought, but ultimately decided against it. Hamilton was standing on the other side, digging the ball of his foot into the dirt of the path. “I never would’ve known,” Hamilton admitted, amazed. He looked down the path, which wound out of sight. “Where does it lead?”

“Nowhere important,” Laurens muttered. He muttered a small verse, and plants grew out of the underbrush in two sprouts, spooking Hamilton. Careful to slow that growths, Laurens directed each of them to twist and weave into something that resembled a chair. With another line, they became sturdy and strong enough to support weight. “You can sit if you want,”

“Damn,” was all Hamilton said. “If I tried a plant growth spell, I would be able to maybe make the leaves on the plant wiggle.”

Already sat down, Laurens shook his head imperceptibly. “What do we do about Lafayette?”

“I shouldn’t have pressured you into spending time with me.”

“I shouldn’t have drank as much as I did.”

“I shouldn’t have pressed you about Kinloch.”

“I shouldn’t have suggested we go into the cellar to get even drunker.”

With a sigh, Hamilton sat down on the plant seat, evidently having forgotten to be wary of it. “We solved the spell/ritual conundrum, you know. I remember laughing, it was so _simple,_ but I can’t remember the solution.” He chuckled, leaning his head against a nearby tree. “And it was a part of the same event that came with so much _regret-“_

“Maybe regret is part of the equation.” Laurens suggested. “The world is balanced, I think. Maybe regret is there so that we’ll want to do better next time.”

And then, in unison, the two of them realized aloud, “we shouldn’t have walked out on Lafayette.”

Continuing, Hamilton said, “the only bad thing he’s done in this situation has been that he put his faith in us, instead of someone else.”

“He put his hopes in us. A hope that he could fight a war that isn’t his. He’s nothing but kind and loyal.” Thoughtful, Laurens leant his head downwards, smoothing out a fold in his breeches before they could wrinkle. “Is it horrible, then, that I’m still a bit afraid of him?”

“Have you ever been afraid of someone you had no reason to be?"

After wracking his memories for a little, Laurens said, “no.”

“But have you ever loved someone even though you should’ve been afraid of them?”

“Yes,” Laurens repeated without hesitation.

“Do you have a reason why you’re scared of Lafayette?”

“Not really.”

Calmly, calmer than Laurens thought possible for the context of the situation, Hamilton responded, “then you haven’t thought any of this through, then.”

Aghast, Laurens leaned forwards. "What the hell do you mean by that?”

“Lafayette’s a demon. Demons, to the best of our knowledge, are raised from a young age to at the very least see humans as easy targets. They have magic that doesn’t even require words to be cast. They can’t lie, so they resort to quick wordplay by nature. If the can trick you into a deal, it would practically guarantee serving that demon for the rest of your life.” All of this was said so nonchalantly, so matter-of-factly, that Laurens might’ve guessed Hamilton was some bored shop clerk reciting the prices for an item he didn’t particularly care about. It was a hair-raising tone to hear.

“I... don’t understand your point.”

“You _should_ be afraid of me,” Hamilton said in the same voice. “I’m ambitious. I’m angry. I write well, and while I’m no prodigy, I’m damn good with my magic. You have plenty reasons to be scared by me.”

“Are you scared of me?”

“No,” Hamilton answered, like it was the easiest thing in the world. “I have reason to be afraid of you. Reason after reason after reason. But I don’t fear you. Not at all.” Without another word, Hamilton stood and walked to the false tree. “I’ve got the inventory handled, if you want to speak with Lafayette.”

“Bad plan.” Laurens stood up, facing Hamilton’s imperceptible stare head-on. “Washington told _us_ to do inventory. Lafayette put his faith in _us.”_ Before he realized what he was doing, Laurens chuckled to himself. “I’m not really afraid of him.”

“Fear lets us survive. Love-” Hamilton took Laurens’ hand, examined it with both of his, and then pressed it gently to his lips- “-love lets us _live.”_

“Ever the poet,” Laurens muttered, rolling his eyes with flushed cheeks. He stared at Hamilton for a while, still holding his left hand. Without a thought, Laurens slipped his hand out of Hamilton’s, but placed both on Hamilton’s cheeks. Through what seemed like instinct, Hamilton leaned into the touch of Laurens’ right hand. “I have never had reason to be afraid of you.”

“What an usurp,” Hamilton murmured, but he was smiling. He tugged a little on Laurens’ collar, and Laurens responded by leaning down for a kiss. “Let’s get going.”

Smiling gently, Laurens placed his hand over the bark, waited a few seconds, and then motioned for Hamilton to step through the tree. “Unless you want to get stuck back here, go ahead and go through so I can re-do the magic keeping this place together.” Rolling his eyes, Hamilton stepped through the tree. Eventually, Laurens saw Hamilton walk around the treeline, searching fruitlessly for Laurens through the brush. It wouldn’t work, not for months, at least. It would take that long for the illusionary magic to wear off enough to see within the path, much less for someone besides Laurens to access it.

True to his word, Laurens began tidying up the path. He used an ink-drying spell that relied on wind to clean up the dirt on the path, where Hamilton had dug his foot into. He’d never found another purpose for this spell, since whenever he cast it, it was more of a strong gust of wind than a gentle, warm breeze. Next, he used a ripening ritual to let the plants work through their life cycle in just seconds. They withered before him, going through so much growth in a period of time inadequate to collect the water needed to accommodate it.

Really, Laurens could’ve performed the magic with Hamilton there, but it was… embarrassing. Whenever he tried to use magic in a normal way, it turned into something overpowered and frightening. At least…

Flexing his hand, Laurens took out his knife from his pocket and drew it across a small part of his arm where he knew a scar wouldn’t form. He cleaned the knife with a handkerchief he kept in a coat pocket and then began the spell. Some chanting, in some ancient language with a forgotten name. Drawing out a few runes with lost meanings. Some of the runes went on his skin, and another set went on the bark of the tree. Taking a breath, Laurens stepped through the tree, stumbling a little as the blood magic’s drain took effect.

From all the times that Laurens had walked out of the path without waiting for someone on the other side, he’d forgotten to heal his wound before stepping out. Hamilton was there almost instantly, grasping the arm carefully but with an iron grip. In fact, one of Hamilton’s hands rested on the bandages he’d placed there just the night before. Softly, almost- almost _afraid-_ Hamilton asked, “again?”

While Laurens felt woozy, it was nothing like how he’d felt last night. And even then, Laurens had performed stronger blood magic- and experienced stronger drains- than he had the night of the translation ritual. “It’s nothing a quick coffee wouldn’t be able to fix."

“‘Wouldn’t,’” Hamilton quoted sarcastically, “as in it’s guaranteed to happen, but it’s your willingness to actually take care of yourself that’s in question.”

“Looks like you’ve got the taking care of myself part done for me,” Laurens muttered in the same tone, watching impassively as Hamilton summoned and wrapped another bandage around Laurens new cut. “You know, you don’t have to do this for me to help you out, when you need it.”

“What?” Hamilton looked up at Laurens inquisitively, seeming almost offended that he was interrupted from his bandaging.

A bit slowly, Laurens elaborated, “you don’t have to act like you’re happy to be doing this just so you can guarantee that I’ll help you out when you need it.” Laurens turned his head away, feeling silly with his arm stuck out at a weird angle.

“I’m not looking for a guarantee, I’m looking for you not to get this infected,” Hamilton shot back. It had the same false bite of the discussion they’d had before visiting the path. “Not everything has to be the prerequisite of some favor you’re unable to refuse.”

A bit of annoyance crept into Laurens’ current cast of emotions. “That’s news to me.” He yanked his arm away from Hamilton once the bandaging was done, and then walked forwards. “Come on,” he said when Hamilton didn’t move. “We have inventory to do, then Lafayette to apologize to, and then Washington to talk with.”

With a stifled laugh, Hamilton walked up to Laurens, and they began walking side-by-side. “May the gods give us their favor, then.”

 _To me, they already did. It isn’t worth it,_ Laurens didn’t say.

“And may we give them cause to regret it,” he did say. Hamilton smiled, and maybe, so did Laurens.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this fic has so much french that it should count as a half language credit for high schools  
> ((( if i could've used a vine to title the chapter: [(click here)](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=6Sj7tlZ570w) ))  
> 


	5. Learning

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> feat. laf being laf and finally getting around to the prologue

Moving away from the path, Laurens seemed to be complacent with letting Hamilton lead the way back to the camp. It made sense, Hamilton thought. Laurens’ path was probably the closest thing he has to home, here. Hamilton had his Tome, but it wasn’t quite the same as the path.

Seeing Laurens waving a hand and directing the growth of those plants, like commanding nature itself was the simplest thing in the world, emerging onto the path from the tree as easily as one would walk through a door? It added up to something never-before-seen. A _comfortable_ Laurens.

Even now, Hamilton could see Laurens out of the corner of his eye, fussing and smoothing out his clothes and stretching his arms and rolling his neck. It seemed like he was, chronically but impossibly, out of place- Except for when he was on the path. Then, all his worries visibly faded away. His shoulders relaxed and he allowed his posture to be loosened. His hands only fidgeted with wrinkles out of boredom, not anxiety. Only on that path, Laurens really, _truly,_ relaxed.

Such a feeling was generally not one that someone could recognize on themself, but Hamilton tried, anyways. He imagined his admittedly small figure hunched over an almost comically large book, dancing his fingers over some of the writing he half-recognized as his mother’s. Then he’d flip the pages until recent became ancient, wondering just how many of his ancestors had held this book.

But even then, in that vision, Hamilton imagined himself with his shoulders drawn tight and expression something like grim, nothing along the lines of that platonic ideal of ‘relaxed.’ Maybe there would be someone else to recognize the unanxious features, one day. Maybe there already was. But, he realized, that was not something he could see for himself, if it was there at all.

Once the two of them entered the house, with Hamilton and Laurens both attempting to hold open the door for the other, sounds like laughter and jokes drifted towards them. “That’s good,” Laurens muttered softly, relieved. “That means we haven’t, like, broken him.”

“Honestly? I don’t think anyone can do that,” Hamilton muttered, walking forwards a little. He could already hear the sounds of two amused voices- Tilghman and Harrison- and one that continuously shouted excitedly- Lafayette.

As Hamilton and Laurens made their way down the hall, they heard the following exchange:

“-Et ça?”

“That’s a piece of parchment,” came Tilghman’s voice, laughter just barely restrained from bubbling over. “Parch-ment.”

“Parsh-min,” Lafayette repeated.

Calmly as one could be while teaching a demon phonology, Harrison explained,“‘T’ sound. ‘Sh’ sound. ‘T-sh’ sound. ‘Ch’ sound.”

“Tsh souhn. Tshhhhh.. Tsh- tsh, ch-” Lafayette stopped himself, and proudly echoed, “ch, ch, ch. Parch-min.”

Laurens was the first to peek around the doorway, but Hamilton followed shortly behind. “Hey, guys,” Hamilton had to say, because Laurens must’ve been at a loss for words. “Laffe, nous sommes-”

It was almost like Laurens didn’t hear Hamilton speaking. Instead of staying silent or even interrupting, Laurens swept forwards, almost marching, until he finally engulfed Lafayette in a hug so tight that it might’ve been painful.

At first, Lafayette looked as if he didn’t quite know how to respond. He was still holding the piece of parchment in his left hand, and his eyebrows were knitted. His expression, which only lingered for a moment, was almost confusion, but lacked something that completed it, something that Hamilton couldn’t name. But whatever it was, Lafayette’s face flooded with relief and happiness and joy and whatever-word-you-assigned-to-that-indescribable-feeling. His mark had already been pressed up against Laurens’ hair, but even then, Lafayette found a way to bury himself deeper into the hug than Hamilton thought possible.

After a few seconds, Lafayette placed his hands on Laurens’ shoulders, a crooked grin under eyes that gave no reason to suspect deception. “English,” he announced with an attempt of authoritativeness. “For learn.”

Leaning against the wall, Hamilton flagged down Harrison and Tilghman. The two of them sat down their quills and pushed in their chairs, and were momentarily standing by Hamilton. The first question Hamilton had was, “is Lafayette alright?”

Frowning a bit, Harrison crossed his arms. “It wasn’t cool for you to do that to Lafayette. He was… He wasn’t himself. He wasn’t optimistic, he was withdrawn. He didn’t know what was going on or why you left, just that you left him, with two near-strangers he can’t speak to, without so much as a word.”

“I know, we fucked up.” Hamilton looked, feeling a bit sick, to where Lafayette and Laurens were trying to communicate without French. Guilt was seeping up in Hamilton’s mind, seeing how quick Lafayette had bounced back to trusting Laurens (and surely, by extension, Hamilton as well). “Lafayette just seems like one of those people that- no, he _is_ one of those people who are just inherently better than you.”

Before Hamilton could continue, Tilghman rolled his eyes. “Yes, we get it, your self esteem varies wildly between thinking you’re the best thing since ever and thinking that even a demon is a better person than you.”

“What? No! Well, yes, but that’s not the point.” Hamilton protested. “He’s _good._ He’s kind and trusting and never thinks bad of anyone. If the world was full of people like him, we wouldn’t be fighting a war. And just to dismiss him as a demon, that isn’t fair to him. He’s someone that lets someone realize that they need to be better than they currently are.”

Confused, Harrison asked, “but I thought it was you and _Laurens_ who were..?”

A bit taken aback, Hamilton waved his hands wildly. “No, I’m _not_ like that with Lafayette. Laurens? Yes, I think so. I _hope_ so. But it would be weird to include Lafayette in that, I mean, he doesn’t really… _get_ the gravity of romantic gestures.”

Together, all three of them thought back to when Lafayette had kissed Hamilton that morning, and then been confused as to why everyone was shocked.

In a small repeat of the morning, Harrison’s eyebrows furrowed. “Again. Laurens said _again.”_

At that time, Laurens and Lafayette came towards the group. A bit reluctantly, Laurens pointed out, “we should probably go find Washington. Lafayette wanted to come along, maybe he could wait outside?”

“Wait outside,” Lafayette echoed determinedly.

Resisting the urge to laugh, not that it was out of malice, Hamilton shrugged. “Sounds good to me.”

Grinning, Lafayette clapped his hands together. He began to say, “parfai-” before remembering his promise to say everything in English. He looked quickly back and forth between Laurens and Hamilton.

“Perfect,” they both said at the same time. Under his breath, Lafayette started practicing the last syllable repeatedly, catching many vowels between the ‘c’ and the ‘t.’

Hamilton waved a hand, gesturing for Lafayette and Laurens to follow.

 

* * *

 

Outside of the tent, Lafayette had climbed on top of a crate, his legs crossed underneath him. He’d taken to twisting shapes out colorful smoke he’d summoned out of boredom, while listening to the voices in the tent. Hamilton and Laurens were talking quickly and in long strings, sometimes with one picking up for the other when the other stopped to take a breath. But after a little bit of that, their voices stopped, and the third one- the General’s- took over.

The few words he recognized were mostly from his short lesson with Harrison and Tilghman. Stuff like ‘the,’ ‘you,’ ‘me,’ and ‘I.’ There were a few that sounded like anglicized versions of French words he knew. ‘Démon’ was perhaps the most recognizable.

After a few minutes, Lafayette began feeling fidgety again. He felt like bursting into the tent himself, and somehow resolving the situation only with his own words. But Lafayette just remembered the General’s blank stare even at Lafayette’s basic greeting. _Maybe I could teach him,_ Lafayette thought. Yes, that might work.

He began playing with the colorful smoke once more, letting it drift up into the air, mixing and twisting and dancing. His mind wandered to Hamilton and Laurens. It was a weird thing, but even though Lafayette forgave them, even though Laurens had explained what had happened (in English, but mixing in French-based words to make sure he was understood), Lafayette still felt a bit hurt by the two of them walking out. And he didn’t get _why._

After all, Lafayette understood the circumstances. It was entirely within the realm of possibility that he would’ve done something similar. And he placed no blame on the two of them, it was just that, well, what would’ve happened had Lafayette not pledged himself to the both of them? There hadn’t been any precedent for Lafayette's sort of double-pledge. Maybe, if Lafayette hadn’t done anything, Laurens and Hamilton would only be dealing with a hangover instead of- well.

But Lafayette couldn’t think like that. He wouldn’t let himself. It wasn’t fun, thinking like that, and _nobody was at fault._

He forced a laugh out of himself, and ran a scripted thought about how silly he was being.

Lafayette summoned more clouds.

For a second, Lafayette thought about how odd it was for humans to have to use spells and incantations, despite humans and demons being tied for most powerful magic. (Of course, that was an average. In fact, Laurens- _and_ Hamilton, though not to so great an extent- showed this. Natural variation among a species in magical power was expected.)

It must be so _exhausting,_ having to learn and memorize so many incantations, and just to use something that was a natural part of yourself. Lafayette almost thought demons had it better. At least, until he remembered himself as a child, struggling to learn how to control magic that still responded to thought and emotion. It was difficult work for young demons, learning how to use magic as a fifth limb rather than letting it lash out with each and every emotion.

Waving his hand about, Lafayette shaped the cloud into an image of his own mark. Seven points of a star drawn with straight lines, able to be drawn with only a few strokes. Other demons spent hours upon hours contemplating onto the meaning of their mark, but Lafayette just thought that his looked nice. With another wave of his hand, it morphed into the mark of his wife, Adrienne. It was a gentle rose, beautiful but prickly and so much like its owner that Lafayette didn’t understand why she spent so many hours lost in thought.

He hoped that she had seen him make it. That she’d been scrying on to try and keep acquainted with Lafayette, even if he was unable to return the favor. He wanted to cry out her name, call her his dearest, for she truly was, but he couldn’t. Drawing out her mark was risky enough. But her name? The combination of a name and a mark could be disastrous. As for Lafayette’s name, well, as the existence of his own nickname proved, it was practically never remembered in its entirety. He was told that it was given to him as an intentional protection, and it was one he was glad for.

Especially with the stunt he pulled with the double-pledge. Especially.

With perfect timing, Lafayette tuned back into the conversation inside of the tent.

“-that hyperactive gnat named Lafayette!”

And then Laurens’ voice: “Actually, Your Excellency, he is a hyperactive gnat named _Marie-Joseph Paul Yves Roch Gilbert du Motier de_ Lafayette, _Marquis de_ Lafayette.”

After the initial shock that Laurens had remembered his full name, Lafayette stuck to wondering what the hell a gnat was, and why it was in such close proximity to his name.

There wasn't much time to contemplate this, however, as Hamilton and Laurens rushed out of the tent near immediately afterwards. They both looked up in near-comic synchronicity, giving Lafayette both a grin and time to ask, “qu’est-ce qu’un gnat?”

“You,” Laurens answered, deadpan, “except on less of a sugar high.”

Hamilton shoved Laurens chidingly. “Oh, be nice to him, he can’t even understand you.”

“So it doesn’t matter.” Laurens raised his eyebrows in a way that Lafayette thought almost mimicked faked anger. “I’m not doing it out of _malice._ He doesn’t know what I’m saying, so it can’t hurt him.”

“Yeah, but it’s the thought that if if someone doesn’t- or _can’t-_ laugh along to a joke at their expense, it isn’t funny.”

Before the two could go on, Lafayette gave a bright smile, and hopped off of the crate. He tried to remember what Hamilton had used earlier, as an affirmation… “Sounds good Tommy.” He patted Laurens on the shoulder, and then Hamilton, before marching into the General’s tent.

As Lafayette pushed open the tent’s flap, he heard Hamilton’s hissing whisper of a voice. It said: _”what? No!”_

He got a funny look from the man sitting at his desk , but that didn't stop Lafayette. He scanned around the tent, and saw that it must've been set up for long-term use. Well-worn tarps covered the grass and dirt, and bookshelves had been sitting along the walls of the tent just long enough to gain the thinnest layer of dust. It was a cozy setup. Lafayette liked it.

An idea coming to his head, Lafayette rushed over to a bookshelf and plucked out the first volume he could find that didn’t radiate magical power. Holding it, he walked right up to the General’s desk, showed the man what he was holding, and proudly proclaimed, “That’s a _book.”_

“Indeed it… Is?” The General looked between the book and Lafayette, completely bewildered. “Did Hamilton and Laurens send you in?”

After thinking for a moment, Lafayette replied, “wait outside. Hamilton and Laurens wait outside.”

“So they asked you to come in.” It didn’t sound like a question, but Lafayette thought he’d heard the same tone being used before, and in those cases, an answer was still expected. At least Lafayette recognized a few words. They, you, come in. That made things easier. But ‘ask?’

“I come in,” Lafayette started slowly, “Hamilton says, ‘what? No.’ _Mais,_ I come in.” His eyes swept around the room again, until they landed on the desk in front of him. There, he saw, “Parchment!” Somehow, Lafayette had never felt so proud or happy to recognize something. “That’s a parchment!”

“It is,” said the General, wearing a sort of awkward smile that was only used in order to mask bewilderment.

Something clicked in Lafayette’s mind, a social nicety he’d forgotten about, since it wasn’t exactly the best idea when demons were among demons. “Oh! My name, my name is Lafayette. You name?”

“General Washington,” the man responded, almost suspiciously.

Clasping his hands together in what was surely his signature move, Lafayette exclaimed, “perfekit!” Joyous at finally getting Washington’s name, Lafayette skipped around the desk and hugged Washington for just a few seconds. “Merci, thanks! Goodbye!”

Without another thought, Lafayette practically skipped out of the tent.

When he exited, he was surprised to find Laurens and Hamilton standing there with their mouths agape. Completely floored, Hamilton pointed to the tent door, whispering, “you just _hugged_ the fucking Commander-In-Chief!”

“While he was angry,” Laurens added, a bit lost.

But Lafayette didn’t understand their concern. After all, the man in the tent didn’t seem angry at all. Maybe he had been a little confused, but other than that, Washington was a pleasant man.

Shrugging, Lafayette  said, “ce n'était pas difficile.”

And began walking back to the house.

 

* * *

 

At the end of the day, Laurens found himself pacing in his room, alone.

After returning to the Hell room, Lafayette had become restless in a room full of silence (sans the scratching of quills) and left to go learn English with some of the soldiers. He’d vowed to be back at sundown, but golden hour was currently only beginning. Lafayette wouldn’t be back for a while, still. Hamilton, once he’d ran out of missives for the General, had ran up to his room and brought out some of his own box of letters, reports, and articles that needed replies.

Hamilton.

That was a chasm between Hamilton and the rest of the world, it seemed.

There was a sort of disconnect between Hamilton and everything else, a strange one. He was unapproachable, but right beside Laurens. Even across a room, probably across oceans, that dual distance/proximity would still be the same. Around Hamilton was an air of focus that nothing could break down the walls of, only be invited into. He looked at things in a way that drew your gaze in, too, concentrated in an almost inhuman way. Focused. Concentrated. _Intense._

Without a good reason, Laurens stopped pacing in the middle of the room. His room, that he had been alone in, until he was bored enough to accept drinks from someone he’d hated, got drunk enough to throw reason out of the window, and consequently summoned a _demon_ to share the room with. He stood in the middle of the room, with the walls and roof and furniture feeling _so_ far away.

In contrast to Hamilton, Laurens felt… dispersed. But small.

Taking a deep breath, Laurens took a few steps towards the door, not quite believing any part of the situation he was in. He walked down the hall and down the stairs, letting his feet carry him back to the Hell room.

On his way there, voices were drifting out of the Hell room, a bit exasperated. Meade, Laurens heard, and Harrison.

“Ham, you’ve got to get packed up. It’s going to be sundown, soon,” Meade said, voice low and annoyed.

“Yeah,” Harrison, agreed, “and I’m not getting you candles. You’ll not be able to write. You should just start getting everything put away now, so you don’t misplace things when light _does_ run out.”

“I’ll use a fire spell,” came Hamilton’s voice, distracted and a few seconds too late. “I’ll use the light from that.”

“You’ll sooner wind up passing out and smudging the ink on your face.” An exaggerated sigh came from Meade. “You’re not even listening to me, are you?”

The sound of a quill scratching on parchment responded.

Feeling almost like his heart was beating in a place outside of his own body, Laurens walked into view, leaning with his shoulder against the archway. Hamilton was hunched over a mess of papers, writing furiously. He seemed half-separated from reality, listening to all that everyone else knew like it was a song so familiar that it was beginning to be tuned out as background noise. Harrison and Meade stood over him, lips pursed and arms crossed.

“Hamilton,”  Laurens said, clearer and with more sonority than he’d expected of himself. Without a moment of hesitation, Hamilton looked up, and Laurens knew he’d been invited in. “We… We should talk.”

Concerned, Hamilton set down his quill. “Do you want to meet in your spot?”

“No,” Laurens said immediately. “Let’s just go upstairs.” He averted his gaze for a second, and then nodded his head at the work scattered in front of Hamilton. “You might want to get that put away,” Laurens suggested.

“Yeah, I guess,” Hamilton muttered, beginning to sort his papers. Harrison and Meade looked, incredulously, between Laurens and Hamilton’s shuffling of his papers. “Go on up,” Hamilton continued, “I might be a while.”

“Okay,” Laurens said quietly, letting his arms fold across his chest. “Alright,” he said, mostly to himself. “Okay. Alright.”

 

* * *

 

When Hamilton finally arrived, Laurens was stood at the window, looking for goodness knows what. He forgot to turn around, to face Hamilton.

Maybe a little concerned, Hamilton called out, “Laurens?”

“We need to talk,” Laurens responded, a bit tense.

Slowly, Hamilton sat down on Laurens’ bed. “Laurens, are you alright?”

Not knowing exactly why, Laurens felt like bursting into laughter. He turned around, compulsively patting at his hair. “Yes. Yes, I just…” He shook his head at himself. “Last night. We need to talk about last night.”

Comprehension dawned on Hamilton’s face. Concern, then a quiet nodding. “I’m really not sure what I should feel about last night. I’m not sure I’m entirely convinced I would do it over, given the option.”

It was a strange way of putting things, Laurens thought. Accordingly, he asked, “where did you get that idea from? I’ve only ever heard of spells that- that _freeze_ time.”

“It’s from an old little thought experiment, nothing magical,” Hamilton waved away, obviously earnest about the overall conversation topic. “But what I meant- I mean, we got three things from last night, really.”

Knowing an invitation to speak when he heard one, Laurens asked, “and what might those be?”

“First,” Hamilton said importantly, “we have the solution to the spell/ritual conundrum.”

“Neither of us remember that, though,” Laurens reminded Hamilton. And honestly, Laurens wasn’t even sure if he remembered _talking_ about it, much less the solution. “It doesn’t give us much.”

Slyly, Hamilton smiled. “Oh, but it does.” He stood up, beginning to pace. “The most obvious thing is that there _is_ a ‘solution.’ A sort of compromise between the Pronunciation Theory and the Materials Theory, but neither. We were both laughing. I remember that much. If Pronunciation theory turned out to be right, I would’ve been gloating, not laughing. And I would’ve been _pissed_ if the Materials Theory turned out to be true. And lastly, it's either so wild or so simple that a pair of drunks can come up with it.”

Without realizing it, Laurens’ jaw had dropped slightly through the course of Hamilton’s speech. He quickly shut his mouth, sure his cheeks were burning. “That’s fair, I guess. What’s the second thing?”

“Lafayette,” Hamilton said easily. “He’s brilliant. Out of a world of cunning demons who probably would have sculpted a deal without sobering us, we got a chronically optimistic hyperactive gnat, one who I trust.”

Chuckling into a hand, Laurens pointed out, “I’ve told you a few times to not treat him like a dog.”

“I’m not!” Hamilton was insistent, but was smiling openly. “But he doesn’t make it easy! He really _is_ puppy-like, Laurens. Spike Fang Spike Fang, marquis de Fang.”

“I don’t even want to know how he’d react to that once he knows English. Actually, who am I kidding. He’d love it.” Laurens shook his head, grinning gently. “Go on, though. What’s your third thing?”

“Us,” Hamilton said back, his voice ringingly clear.

Laurens’ faint smile disappeared from his face. “Hamilton,” he said at a level that was probably barely audible. “We need to _talk.”_

Similarly, Hamilton’s smile broke. “Do you mean-”

“The only reason we… The only reason we became an ‘us’ was because of a series of slip-ups and accidents.” Laurens ran a hand down his face, sure he wasn’t phrasing _anything_ right. “Where we’re at, right now, is standing on a stack of precariously placed rocks that’ll fall down at the first wind.”

“That-” Hamilton shook his head, in that shocked look of his that made him look like he was going to throw a punch. “That makes no _sense._ I don’t- I don’t get it.”

“We, we can’t be-” Laurens didn’t let himself say the word ‘romantic,’ “-we can’t be _us_ unless we have that foundation, one that’s steady and strong that won’t crumble.” Laurens’ voice had become more than a little desperate, a plea in it.

Shaking his head, Hamilton finally stood back up, biting his lips and running his hands through his hair and all of those things motivated by nervous energy. “We can talk, I don’t see why we have to revert to a point where neither of us were happy!”

“Because there should be a stepping stone between hating each other and not being able to be without the other!”

Laurens let his shoulders droop, and stood, small, in the middle of the room. God, he hated himself for this. For taking something good, for the both of them, and tearing it into bits, just because of a bit of fear.

But he was being reasonable, he was bringing up good points learned from experience. Even if he wasn’t putting it in a way that Hamilton could understand, later introspection would help him realize on his own.

But it was selfish. It was selfish, because Laurens didn’t want to loose someone else. Hamilton, well, someone like Hamilton could probably get over someone in a matter of days. And then there was Laurens, who was still orbited by his memory of Kinloch.

Something snapped Laurens from his thoughts. It took a second time for it to occur for Laurens to actually comprehend it. It had been Hamilton, calling out Laurens’ name.

A bit distracted, Laurens asked, “what?”

In contrast to the bewildered and near violent disagreement, Hamilton was now a bit disquieted. “The sunlight around you. It was changing. Glowing blue. It must’ve been illusionary magic.”

Laughing, laughing a bit madly, Laurens put his face in his hands. “I- I didn’t even realize that I- God, I’m out of sorts.” He wiped at his cheeks, feeling hot tears. It wasn’t even a surprise that they were there.

Without the slightest warning, the door swung open. Lafayette walked through, looking exhausted. Not so much as a word came out of his lips as he kicked off his shoes, threw his coat on the floor, and flopped spread-eagle onto the bed. In seconds, he began snoring.

A tiny chuckle escaped from Hamilton’s lips, truly and beautifully, well, True and beautiful. “I thought there was something that went wrong between us,” Hamilton said, still looking affectionately at the now-asleep Lafayette. “But it’s the opposite, isn’t it? There was something that went _right._ You’re worried about that foundation because you want it to last a long time.” He nodded, seemingly assured in his realization.

“Yes,” Laurens replied, because that was all he knew how to say at the moment.

Hamilton looked at Laurens again, in that appraising manner, the last of the sunset’s golden rays being caught in, and then disappearing from, his eyes. “I understand it now,” he announced. “And you’re right.”

He left.

 

* * *

 

The night passed. Eventually.

Strangely, Laurens had awoken before Hamilton.

When Hamilton did come down to the Hell Room, he found a single, red apple at his usual place at the table. He took it in his hand, and instinctively looked up. His eyes met with Laurens, who made a smile as an offering.

In response, Hamilton took a bite of the apple. As soon as he finished chewing, he let a bright, shining smile show.

They each got to work.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> so you don't hate me right  
> okay on a more serious note, this is the last chapter before a timeskip, because honestly it took 5 chapters to write something i wanted to fit into 3 and i have ideas i need to get to, goddamnit.  
> NB lau and ham ARE going to be romantically involved again this is just them trying to create a healthy and stable relationship  
> 


	6. Six Guys In A Field Messing WIth Magic

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hey guys this chapter has blood magic in it, so be careful  
> anyways this chapter involves me somehow working a minor plotline about a black hole into a story set in the 1700s how's your day going

Deep into the most comforting hours of the night, Laurens was awoken by the door hastily being pushed open and the quiet whisper of a flame spell. Laurens sat up in bed, looking blearily to a wide-awake Hamilton with a flame over his outstretched palm and an exhausted Lafayette that refused to do anything other than lie down. “Good technically morning, you guys. I’ve got an idea and needed to get some feedback.”

“No murder,” Lafayette said sleepily, his accent reverted back to how it had been a few weeks earlier. Since then, it had faded slightly, though he still had trouble pronouncing the ends to certain words. Though, sleepiness rendered hours and hours of practice virtually null.

“No, no murder,” Hamilton said dismissively, moving to sit on the bed next to Laurens. Rolling his eyes, Laurens let himself recline, trying not to fall back asleep. "Not technically, at least. This is an idea for battle magic.”

“I’m suddenly interested,” Laurens muttered jokingly, letting his head lean against the wall. “But make it quick.”

Earnestly, Hamilton put his elbows on his knees. “Okay, so I was looking through my Tome-”

Lafayette raised a foot into the air in an attempt to get Laurens’ and Hamilton’s attention. “Your Tome. What is that?”

After a moment of quiet thought, Hamilton seemed to decide on a certain phrasing. “It’s a book about magic that’s passed generation to generation. It has spells and rituals and information on magical creatures.”

“Oh,” Laurens butted in, “it has information on magical creatures? Could I borrow it sometime?” 

“It’s in Hebrew,” Hamilton waved off, seemingly eager to go back to whatever he’d woken up Laurens and Lafayette for. “Anyways, I was looking at something about the conservation of mass throughout magical reassembling and reshaping and I was wondering, what's stopping us from making an object so dense that you could use it as a practically infinite source of matter?” Hamilton quickly translated the more technical terms into French for the uncomprehending Lafayette.

Frowning, Lafayette contemplated this, seeming to take the ridiculous thought with actual seriousness. “You must create a, a pocket, in the air, to hold the object.” He made a little diagram in the air above himself, letting bright and colorful clouds illustrate his words. “The object would be too heavy for carrying around it. You must store it in the pocket.” The clouds formed a pink background, with a blue ball of thick smoke being handed to a green approximation of a human. The human was subsequently pressed flat against the bottom border of the pink background. But then, it used a hand to open a little vestibule hidden behind the pink, and placed the ball inside of that. “You might then be able to draw from it, while keeping the pocket near you.” The green human was suddenly surrounded by others like it, the enemy clothed in red, but a tentacle-like mass grew from the pocket and wiped all the red-clothed cloud army off of their feet.

“Keeping that stable, though,” Laurens began pointing out, gesturing to the pocket, “would require an impossible amount of magical energy.” He muttered a quick spell, one that let him play around with Lafayette’s pre-summoned clouds, and had the diagram turn ninety degrees, so that everyone could see the pocket that had formed behind it. “And because it’s so heavy, if you couldn't maintain it…” Laurens trailed off, but swiped sideways with some force. In response, the pocket began pulling on the background, tearing the pink and green and red apart in order to let the pocket stretch farther and farther back. 

Pursing his lips, Hamilton considered this for a moment. “Laurens, would  _ you  _ be able to maintain it?”

Smiling a little at Hamilton’s signature stubbornness, Laurens shook his head. “Ham, I would be able to do that for about thirty seconds at  _ most.  _ And then, I would have to let it start  _ eating  _ the entire damn world. We’re talking about a ‘practically infinite’ object, remember.”

“What, are you  _ laughing _ at me?” It wasn’t a serious accusation, seeing how the corners of his own lips were pulled up as well. “At least I came to ask you two for advice before actually attempting it.”

“The world thanks you for granting it at most a few more years of existing solely at  _ your _ mercy.” Laurens patted Hamilton on the back mockingly, which only served to make Hamilton roll his eyes. Another grin poked at Laurens’ features, but he just drew himself back into a sleeping position. “Now, we’ll all see each other in the  _ morning.”  _

Though he stood, Hamilton shrugged. “Technically, it  _ is  _ morning.” 

“No,” came Lafayette’s voice, from the other side of the room. “It is not.”

_ Yes it is,  _ Hamilton mouthed silently to Laurens.

“Get some rest, Ham,” Laurens said in response. “Practical practice tomorrow, yeah?”

“Traitor,” Hamilton said affectionately. Nevertheless, he sighed, raising up his hands in defeat. “Fine. I’ll go and get a few hours.” He walked over to Lafayette, placing a small kiss at his hairline, and then walked over and did the same to Laurens, as had become the common parting gesture between the three of them. “See you both in a few hours,” he whispered to the room, slipping out of the door with barely a sound.

 

* * *

Practical practice was just about the most fun Hamilton had ever had, in his life.

About once a month, the aides managed to get away from work for a day, and left camp to find some clear field and practice their battle magic. They shared strategies, spells, rituals, anything that they thought might be useful in a battle. This time was especially exciting, since it would be the first time they’d see Lafayette doing real magic.

Laurens, like he’d done for all the previous practical practices, had said he’d just sit somewhere nearby reading a book and stand by as a healer. Hamilton understood this and didn’t do much to contest it. With Laurens being as self-conscious about his magic as he was, Hamilton was surprised that Laurens agreed to come at all. He was glad, though, that Laurens was coming along. Even if he’d probably relax under the shade of a tree just within earshot, Hamilton had come to appreciate Laurens’ presence over the last few weeks. Hell, maybe Hamilton would join Laurens for an hour or two.

Even as Meade yelled at him to pack his bag faster, Hamilton felt a twinge of surliness prick at his side. It wasn’t exactly pointed at himself, or at Laurens, or Lafayette, or anything tangible. It was merely a dissatisfaction with the entire situation, while at the same time knowing that the situation was the best option going forwards. After all, that one night and day, back a lifetime ago, Hamilton had felt guilt all throughout. He’d hear Laurens laugh, and beat himself up over not listening to it beforehand. Recently, though, when he hears Laurens laugh, Hamilton immediately joins in. 

It was the difference between admiration and…

Admiration, and something  _ true.  _

Where there had been the regretful memory of misguided actions and malicious intent, there were now numerous memories of inside jokes and cooperative adventures. Unsurety had transformed to near-synchronization with the other. There was something between them, a meal not yet prepared to completion, but which the chefs kept taking samples from. A flower still in bloom, a good book half-read. A promise made, but which is dormant until the time it must be fulfilled.

There were metaphors to go around, each of which could go on and on yet never approach what it was attempting to reach. Still, the meal, the flower, the book, the promise, the whatever-you-wanted-to-call-it, it would complete itself sometime soon. Something about their relationship would click into place, and they’d wonder about how they were ever anything else.

But Hamilton knew nothing would come from inaction. He racked his brain, trying to think of an acceptable way to really express just what he felt. Some grand, public gesture wasn’t the best option, neither was a series of tiny, private ones. So, something big but not grand. No, that didn’t make sense. Maybe the clue was between the public and the private, though. Something noticeable, but maybe not interpretable.

And then, Hamilton found his keyword.  _ Interpretable.  _ His memories went back to early that morning, when Laurens had asked to borrow his Tome. He’d been too focused on the idea he’d had to really recognize the request- he’d have to apologize later. But, Hamilton said to himself, growing more confident in the idea, maybe he could develop some non-blood magic to translate text. Even then, it shouldn’t be  _ too  _ difficult to create a translation spell/ritual for two languages he already knew. Hell, he could probably do it during practical practice, if he wanted to. Maybe afterwards, though. 

“HAMILTON,” Meade shouted at an unnecessary volume from outside the door, “WE’RE LEAVING WITHOUT YOU.”

Suddenly remembering that he was in the middle of packing a bag, Hamilton snapped into action. “I WILL KILL YOU, MEADE,” he yelled back, calmly.

 

* * *

In the most evil fashion, the rest of the aides really  _ had  _ left without Hamilton.

“Assholes,” Hamilton said to the others, who just snickered in response. 

“To be fair,” Lafayette said, still walking forwards with the rest of the group, “it was very funny.”

“It was,” Harrison agreed. “And, Meade  _ did _ warn you.”

For dramatic effect, Hamilton put on a petulant face. “I was  _ thinking.  _ I got lost in thought. _ ” _

“ Not much thought to get lost in,” Tilghman mumbled just loud enough for everyone to hear. 

At this, a wild grin grew on Laurens’ face. “Oh, but he  _ does  _ have a few thoughts. Why, just last night-”

“-Technically morning-”

“-he was thinking about a plan that would cast the very Earth into the void!” All of this was said with a teasing grin, no maliciousness behind it. 

After a few seconds in which Harrison, Tilghman, and Meade all turned to look at Hamilton incredulously, they all burst out laughing.

Rolling his eyes, Hamilton turned to Lafayette in a shameless attempt to change the subject. “Are you excited for your first practical practice?”

“Yes,” Lafayette answered without hesitation, grinning widely. “Battle magic looks difficult, but very fun.”

However, Hamilton wasn’t able to respond. Harrison playfully pushed Lafayette to the side, but, as was very apparent in hindsight, Lafayette wasn’t exactly stable on his feet. Not only was he clumsy, but he had the approximate strength and silhouette of a few pieces of spaghetti pasted together. Before anybody could reach for Lafayette, he’d fallen on the ground, right at the feet of three young soldiers.

Despite having just been unceremoniously shoved into the dirt, as soon as he saw the faces of the men standing above him, he smiled as if coming across an oasis in the desert. “Friends!”

“Marquis,” said the one in the middle, affectionately enough. But then, his eyes traced up the forms of the rest of the aides, and his expression changed. The two men he’d been talking with shared this reaction. “Who’re these fellows?”

There was no sign that Lafayette sensed something was wrong. It was only the past few weeks of tight friendship that let Hamilton remember that Lafayette was trying to diffuse an explosive situation. “They work for the General,” Lafayette said calmly, still laying in the dirt and on his back. “We are going to practice our battle magic.”

The man on the left scoffed. “Washington’s staff? Practicing battle magic? It would be more useful to practice methods on teaching pigs to fly.”

Tilghman gave a dry snort. “Why should we? We’ve already got a couple of pigs standing in front of us.”

Innocently, Lafayette nudged the left man’s boot. “That's Tilghman. He likes jokes,” he said matter-of-factly.

Unimpressed, the middle man leant down and picked a surprised Lafayette up. Of course, he was only able to pull Lafayette into a sitting position, since the demon was so insanely tall that he couldn’t easily be forced to stand. “Marquis, are you sure you want to hang out with these fellows? They’re the type who care less about actual wartime matters and more about...” his eyes danced over the aides, until they landed on Laurens. Hamilton moved to stand in front of Laurens, but Laurens had moved to stand in front of Hamilton, so they just bumped into each other. The middle man didn’t break eye contact with Laurens, however, except for a single flicker upwards. “They care more about hair powder, let’s say.”

The effect was instantaneous. 

Meade and Harrison both had to stop Hamilton from charging at the three of them. He saw red, how  _ dare _ they say something like that to his Laurens, who could very well take pleasure in powdering his hair, thank you very much. And that  _ aura _ radiating from Laurens, stricken and  _ upset, _ Hamilton couldn’t stand it. He would take these three men in a duel- at once- if that’s what it would take. He tried pulling his right arm free, but Meade’s grip was too strong. Instead, Hamilton started muttering out a curse, a nice Medieval Latin one, but before it could be casted, Tilghman had already finished a silencing spell.

Meanwhile, Lafayette stood and faced the three soldiers, speechless. After a few seconds, Lafayette announced, “these are some of the honorable-est people I know. I am sure, if you and they become friends-”

“No thanks,” said the man on the right, his arms crossed. “I don’t exactly want to hang out with Washington’s lackeys.”

Immediately, Lafayette’s face turned to a mixture of hurt and confusion. “I don’t- what’s lackeys?” Lafayette turned back to the aides. “What’s lackeys?” 

But Hamilton knew the only people who could explain the term for him were Hamilton and Laurens. Harrison had taken over for teaching him about words for physical objects that could be pointed at, and Tilghman had practically written a book of idioms and metaphors that hid in everyday speech. But for more complex topics, Lafayette had learned to ask either Hamilton or Laurens to explain it in French. Hamilton, however, was being physically restrained by two people and was unable to make any noise come out of his mouth. It sucked and he  _ hated  _ it, since he  _ really  _ wanted to fight all three of them. 

As for Laurens, well, Hamilton didn’t even have to look back to know that Laurens wouldn’t-  _ couldn’t-  _ speak. Hamilton didn’t really understand his thought process, but he did know that Laurens was particularly vulnerable to ad hominem comments; the two of them had spoken about it after Hamilton had made a remark, jokingly, that was nevertheless impactful. 

“Let’s go,” Meade suggested lightly. Accordingly, Lafayette looked back at the three men with a sad sort of amazement, but then turned, walking along the path before the rest of the group could start. 

_ Finally, _ Meade and Harrison unhanded Hamilton and undid the silencing spell, but the one thing kept him from attacking the three men was Laurens himself. 

In absence of all other walls broken down, Hamilton’s brain slowed down (or, else, it sped up) to come across the realization that starting this fight would be neither beneficial nor satisfying for Laurens. Probably, it would actually wind up being the opposite of both. 

Hamilton backed down.

He looked back to Laurens, and the two of them shared a small conversation just through eye contact.

_ We should catch up with Lafayette. _

_ Yeah. You okay? _

_ I’ll be fine. _

Without a word, Hamilton walked over to Laurens, purposely bumping into him with his shoulder. They both started walking, Harrison and Tilghman and Meade stepping out of their way, then following them.

“Laurens, I just wanted to say-”

“It’s  _ alright,  _ Hamilton.” 

But the situation was almost oppressively  _ not alright,  _ not when Laurens was so shaken up. “A minute,” Hamilton said, “It’ll only take a minute.”

“Then go,” Laurens replied in a tone that was supposed to be joking. “I’m counting.”

Taking a deep breath, Hamilton let the words run through his head before reading them from some nonexistant script. “I know what the guy said bothered you, and I want you to talk to me about it. But I know that what  _ I  _ want isn't necessarily what you want, and-or what you need. So while I at least want you to know that coming to talk to me is an option that you have, and one that I hope you’ll take.”

A bit distantly, Laurens nodded.”I’ll… try to keep that in mind.”

  
  


* * *

 

Once they arrived at the field Meade had found, Laurens had gone to sit near the treeline, getting comfortable as if he expected a show. That unnerved Lafayette, slightly. Nothing was assuaged when Hamilton took the liberty to use a spell on himself that made his voice ten times louder and ordered everyone who wasn’t named Laurens to get into a line.

Seeing Lafayette’s confusion, Meade let out a small laugh. “This is his favorite part.”

“ALRIGHT, EVERYONE.” Hamilton shouted, grinning wildly. “I’ll be explaining things as we go along for Lafayette!”

Cupping his hands around his mouth so his voice would reach farther, Lafayette yelled, “Please start the explaining now!”

“You guys will be exercising, so our hearts beat faster,” Hamilton explained, his voice still at a volume that was higher than he should be allowed to have. “It makes it easier to cast this sort of magic.”

While that didn't sound similar to anything Lafayette had heard of, demon magic  _ was  _ very different. Hamilton and the rest of the aides had, after all, done this several times before.

And hey, what did Lafayette have to lose?

 

* * *

Several lungs, apparently.

After several minutes of running around the open field as fast as he could, Lafayette eventually decided that it would be profitable if he lay on the grass with his limbs spread out like a starfish’s. The ground was nice and cool under his body; he was glad that he’d decided to take off his coat. 

Just when comfort kicked in, Hamilton picked up that there were only three people running about, now. “LAFFE,” came Hamilton’s magically amplified voice, “ENCORE, ENCORE, ENCORE! Get your heart beating fast”

Solely to make Hamilton shut up, Lafayette sat up, unintentionally glaring at Hamilton, who looked almost shocked at the look he was being given. “Je n’ai plus une coeur,” he said, deadpan, before flopping back onto the ground. 

 

* * *

A few minutes after Lafayette had given up on the exercise portion, Hamilton announced it was time to actually get started on the magic. They met base near Laurens, all but Hamilton almost completely out of breath. Still grinning smugly, he turned to Lafayette. “We go one at a time, usually.” His voice had finally returned to its proper volume, which Lafayette was thankful for. “We keep clustered so we don’t accidentally hit one another.”

Sulkily, Harrison looked at Meade. Lafayette could only guess as to what had happened there. 

“I’ll go first,” Harrison offered. Hamilton nodded, as if Harrison was waiting for him to give permission. 

He walked forwards from the rest of the group about fifteen feet, and then muttered an entire verse or two, moving his arms as if he were conducting an orchestra. Instead of producing music, however, a tornado-like figure began growing from the ground. It was thinner, though, and almost seemed alive. It built itself taller and taller, swirling and churning in a completely vertical fashion, until it suddenly stopped. Then, Harrison reached out both hands towards the thing as if offering a hug, and then the ash-gray column bent and wiggled, almost… flexing?

Then, it bent, and the top of the vortex pointed towards the aides, revealing two, glowing-yellow ovals. Lafayette heard Laurens’ book drop, and his voice, quiet, saying, “what the fuck?” Then, Harrison turned around. It was wobbly and uncoordinated, and he wasn’t  _ quite _ facing the aides. And it was obvious why. 

Under his eyelashes, there was only a dark expanse.

“What the FUCK,” Laurens repeated, louder this time. Lafayette couldn't help but agree with this sentiment.

Placatingly, Harrison smiled and held up his hands in a surrender-type gesture, though one hand was significantly higher than the other. “I can still see, you know.”

Suddenly, Hamilton let out a small, “oh, damn.”

Now grinning wildly, Harrison attempted to clap his hands together victoriously, but missed. The odds were not being stacked in favor of him being able to see, Lafayette thought. “‘Oh, damn’ indeed, Ham! And Laf, no need to look so doubtful!”

Partly offended, mostly confused, Lafayette threw out his hands towards Harrison. “Your eyes are  _ black!” _

Beside him, Hamilton took a few steps forward.  _ “His  _ eyes are.” Slowly, Hamilton pointed his finger at the vortex, which was looking down at them. “It’s not the same for the eyes of  _ that  _ thing.”

“Ooooooh,” Tilghman said, drawing out the syllable for longer than was perhaps necessary. “Now I  _ see  _ what’s going on.”

Meade turned with laser-sharp precision, jabbing a finger in Tilghman's chest. “That was terrible, and you know it.”

“Most certainly,” Tilghman replied with a solemn nod.

“I’m going to-”

Probably for the best, the world never learned what Meade was going to do. Harrison’s tornado eyestalk moved forwards a bit, focusing in on Meade. “Are we not going to talk about the use this spell has for reconnaissance?”

“It’s a bit conspicuous,” Hamilton pointed out, a bit concerned.

“And easy to hit,” Lafayette admitted. “What would happen if, say, someone shot a cannonball through it?”

The vortex snaked through the air, until it came to rest just behind Harrison’s head, letting him see his own body so he could move. “My sight returns to my own eyes, and the tornado dissolves into air.”

Proudly, Harrison crossed his arms. “If at all interrupted, the column dissolves and my sight is returned to me.” 

But Meade wasn’t so convinced. “What about magically charged cannonballs? Can’t those disrupt the link between your eyes and the tornado thing, or even absorb it?”

Silently, Harrison dissolved the vortex, looking the smallest bit worried. He flinched a little, adjusting back to seeing from his own point of view. “God, that’s weird. Anyone else want to go?” 

“I just got an idea,” Hamilton announced, slapping a hand over his mouth. “Did anyone see a sandy area nearby?”

A book snapped shut. “Yes,” Laurens replied, standing up. “It was a ways back, but I can go and transport it.” 

“Oh, don’t enable him,” Tilghman pleaded. 

“I’m not going to kill all of you with  _ sand,”  _ Hamilton shot back, giving Tilghman a nasty shove.

As Laurens began walking away without so much as a word,   Lafayette gave a little laugh. “You almost killed the world with a tiny ball.”

“A  _ dense  _ tiny ball,” Hamilton clarified. “Sand isn’t dense. You guys are safe.”

“For now,” Meade mumbled, unconvinced. “I’ll go next, since Laurens would probably kill all of us if anyone else went.” After a moment’s thought, Lafayette reasoned that this was reasonably accurate, minus the exaggerations. 

For a while, Meade repeated the same few Sanskrit lines with funny little hand motions, but it was to no avail. The others, including Hamilton, had taken to loudly applauding and cheering with every failed attempt. Meade took a break after a while, to use a modified form of Lafayette’s cloud magic to form a giant, midair middle finger. That, however, only generated more applause.

After a few minutes, Laurens’ voice found its way into Lafayette’s mind.  _ I’m on the trail we took to get here. Can you meet me there? _ The spell was one that Hamilton, Lafayette, and Laurens had set up between themselves for ‘necessary communications only.’ Concern filled Lafayette’s thoughts, and so he put a hand on Hamilton’s shoulder. As soon as Hamilton made eye contact, Lafayette assured him, “I will return soon,” and then ran off to go and find Laurens, whispering out a reply as he did.

 

* * *

Luckily, Lafayette came across a healthy and well Laurens. 

The latter man was pacing back and forth, a large mass of sand floating just out of his way. “Hey, Laf,” Laurens said a bit flatly, as if he were lost in thought. “Could you help me get this over to where everyone’s practicing?”

“Sure,” Lafayette agreed without a thought. “But why do you need my help?”

Without making eye contact, Laurens paused his steps. “I don’t.”

“Then why did you..?”

Laurens gestured to the large lump of sand that was floating in the air. It was packed as if still in the ground, probably about the size of Lafayette’s bed. “A spell like this should drain me, especially if it were being casted for a long time. It doesn’t affect me because of my  _ stupid  _ magic-” Laurens kicked a small stone that was laying on the ground, “-so they would know  _ immediately _ if I walked there, alone, carrying all this sand without breaking a sweat, they would  _ know  _ there was something wrong with me.”

“Oh, Laurens,” Lafayette breathed out, letting his shoulders fall. “Nothing is wrong with you.” He shook his head, not sure how to get Laurens to look at him. “Humanity’s magic is thought to be, to be, damn it,” Lafayette said, unable to find the words in English. He switched to French after a few moments. “It’s perceived as homogenous, but it’s so diverse! It’s so silly, that humans are about the only creatures that can’t sense magic when they have the most to sense.” He went back to English, knowing that he could express everything he needed to in it. “Tommy, I can’t find any more difference between you and- and Meade than Meade and Harrison.”

A few seconds later, Laurens let out a small chuckle. He looked at Lafayette, one eye just peeking past his cheek, and gave a sad little smile. “I’ll keep that in mind in case I ever go back to France.”

In return, Lafayette gave a grin with enough happiness for the both of them. “If you ever go back to France, you’re taking me there, too.” Laurens laughed, seemingly involuntarily, and Lafayette walked up to him to slap a hand on his shoulder. “I’ll take the sand,” Lafayette said with finality. 

 

* * *

When Lafayette and Laurens returned, Hamilton was practically shaking with anticipation. He began mumbling so fast that it was impossible for Lafayette to understand him. 

Meade stared, a little incomprehensibly, at Hamilton. “Did you make Laurens get a bunch of sand so you could  _ rant  _ at it?”

“Of course not,” Hamilton waved off, crouching to inspect the sand that was now a pile on the ground. “That’s what I have you for.”

“Hamilton,” Laurens said with false annoyance, “show us the sand magic or I’m taking over coaching next time.”

That seemed to snap Hamilton into action. Besides spells, Hamilton said nothing more for almost three minutes, complicated hand gestures and multiple spell languages all working together. Lafayette noticed the rest of the aides almost following along, nodding at points or being surprised when a new spell was started. But to Lafayette, it was all gibberish. From a lifetime of working without incantations, it was impossible for him to follow along. 

The words that Lafayette did understand were from Old French or Latin, and said in an accent that was soft but direct. There was a thought that passed through Lafayette’s mind, that even if Hamilton spoke in that accent (and, listening closely, it became known it wasn’t unique to only those two languages) in Modern French or English, Lafayette still wouldn’t be able to understand him.

And then, Hamilton stopped. His chest rose and fell in the silence, but he had a wild smirk on his face, as if he’d been working for whatever it was he’d done for decades. “Everyone ready?”

Almost suspicious, Harrison glared at the sand. “Ready for what?”

Amused, Hamilton snapped his fingers and then swept his hand towards Harrison. The sand shot through the air, and, with another twirl of his fingers, made a ring around Harrison. “Ready for this,” Hamilton replied, looking as if he were a few seconds away from breaking into laughter.

“The hell?” Harrison tried to push through the sand, but it held firm. In a stroke of genius, Harrison simply ducked under the ring and began crawling out. Hamilton, however, in a stroke of not-genius, hurridley swiped his hand down, and the sand followed, forming around Harrison’s torso and arms. “Congratulations, idiot,” Harrison said, looking more than a little inconvenienced. “You trapped me in the worst part of a sandwich.”

“Sand isn’t  _ that _ bad,” Meade interjected, but quickly quieted at the look Harrison gave him. “Maybe you should let him out of there, Ham.”

Almost regretfully, Hamilton let the sand fall to the ground, back into a shiftable form. “I had no idea it would work that well,” Hamilton said, beaming. “I just thought up of it less than ten minutes ago.”

“So you decided to bully me,” Harrison said as he tried to fight his way out of a pile of now-loose sand, though he seemed to be loosing. Mercifully, Hamilton pulled the sand away from Harrison, but only earned a middle finger in response.

Seeing Hamilton begin to undo the spells he’d casted, Lafayette perked up. “Can I go this time?”

Immediately, he was met with vehement approval.

Smiling gratefully, Lafayette stepped forwards, being ushered and pushed excitedly to where he would be able to cast without doing any harm to anyone- unlike Hamilton. “Okay!” Lafayette shouted, rubbing his hands together excitedly. “Okay. What do I do?”

“Just test out your ideas,” Tilghman offered. “You said you were looking forward to this a lot, right? What sort of stuff did you imagine yourself doing today?”

“Cheering everyone else on and enjoying the spectacles they would perform,” Lafayette said without hesitation. “I didn’t really think to plan for anything else.”

Shrugging, Meade suggested, “You can summon a lot of clouds and we can all have a cloud-snowball fight.” 

“Perfect,” Lafayette replied, already filling the the sky with many-colored clouds, competitive grins popping up all around him.

 

* * *

Later that evening, Hamilton sat back in his chair and let out a huge sigh of relief. The table was covered in hastily written notes and meticulously drawn sigils. His Tome was in the center of it all, and  _ finally,  _ Hamilton had found a way to let the handwritten Hebrew appear, to his eyes, to be English. 

It was a ritual, requiring sigils and a few enchantments, but it had only taken so long to manufacture because it had been based off of the blood magic Laurens had used that night they’d summoned Lafayette. Luckily, the ritual was described in his Tome, but he doubted it could be found in any other book in the house. By all means, blood magic had a heavy association of evil attached to it, so even non-blood magic derivatives of rituals that were originally blood magic were frowned upon. Translation magic would’ve been one of the most used sorts of magic, if only it wasn’t seen as dark magic. Even when it required no blood, at all. 

Usually, Hamilton didn’t comprehend the reasonings behind superstitions or traditions or fashions, even though he could typically catch on and follow them well. But Hamilton completely understood the attitude against so-called ‘tainted magics.’ Subscribing to them, however, wasn’t quite something he was skilled at.

Proudly, Hamilton collected the materials that were needed to actually complete the spell- a parchment with the incantations needed and a cheat sheet for the sigils needed. He slipped his Tome under his arm, opting to clean up later. He stepped out from the room he’d been working in, into the Hell Room, where Tilghman and Lafayette were trading jokes in hushed voices. When he saw this, Hamilton immediately became worried. “No corrupting him,” he said to Tilghman pointedly. He got a simple tongue stuck out at him for his efforts, but Hamilton’s mind was in sharp focus. “Do either of you know where Laurens is?”

Both of them thought for a moment, but it was Lafayette who answered. “I think he said he was going out for something. He didn’t say when he was coming back, though.”

“Thanks, Laf. When did he leave, do you think?” Hamilton grabbed the bag he used when transporting papers and slung it over one shoulder, placing the materials carefully inside. 

“About an… a… an hour and a half ago? If that’s how you say it,” Lafayette added on uncertainty. 

“It was perfect,” Hamilton said automatically. “I’m going to try and contact him, one second.” Carefully, he recited the opening line of Latin, still getting used to the spell. “Laurens, Lafayette said you’re on a walk, but can I meet you somewhere? I’ve got something to show you.” And then, he whispered out the cap for the spell. 

A few seconds passed, and then ten, and then twenty and thirty. As time drew on, Hamilton began biting at his lip, looking between Lafayette and Tilghman, who were now concerned as well.

There was something that let Hamilton know that something was up. Not just the unanswered message, but also some sixth sense that left his eyes, nose, ears, and hands in the dust. But, Hamilton knew that Tilghman and Lafayette didn’t have that same sense. 

On instinct, Hamilton snapped his head to the side, and held a hand up. He would pretend that Laurens had finally responded, and-

“Was that Laurens? Is he alright?” Lafayette was leaning forwards, worried out of his mind. Tilghman looked about the same.

With the goal of assauging that emotion, it made what Hamilton did a lot easier. After another few moments, he breathed a sigh of relief, and then waited a few more before turning back to the two. “He’s fine. He was just doing some complex magic that he had to finish before contacting me. He says he’s sorry, and he gave me a spot to meet him at.”

Lafayette practically collapsed in relief. Hamilton tried not too feel to guilty about that. Tilghman didn’t look  _ completely _ convinced, but it looked like he understood what Hamilton was trying to do. “Oooh, thank god,” Lafayette exclaimed, slapping a hand over the cheek without his mark. “He scares me, Laurens does. With what happened today... “ Lafayette shook his head, staring at the table. “He scares me.”

“I know,” Tilghman replied softly. “But he’s alright. We know that now.”

“I guess,” sighed Lafayette. 

Giving a reassuring little smile, Tilghman reached over the table to put a hand on Lafayette’s shoulder. “Hey, why don’t we head up to bed? It’s getting late, anyways.” Lafayette rolled his eyes heavily, but still stood and walked out of the room, giving a short wave before he disappeared beyond the door. Tilghman and Hamilton were both silent, staring at each other, until Lafayette’s footsteps stopped. Then, Tilghman nodded his head. “Go find him.”

Hamilton didn’t need to be told twice.

He knew exactly where to go. He raced to the treeline, trying to find the false tree Laurens had put up. He recognized the tree immediately, despite it being almost two months since he’d came here. He placed his hand on the trunk of the tree, and felt it dematerialize beneath his touch. He ran through it, but once he was on the path, it was like he was under an enchantment. It was so quiet, and so dark…

In a voice little more than a whisper, Hamilton summoned a flame to sit on his hand. The flickering light gave a sort of life to the path, like the entire forest had a heart that was rhythmically pumping blood through the trees. He proceeded slowly, down the twists and the turns of the path. It grew narrow, only giving the terrible beating-heart image all the more prominence. Going around every corner was paralyzing; but Hamilton continued.

After almost five minutes on the path, Hamilton came across the final turn. He knew it before he even crossed it; it was that same sixth sense that let him know something was wrong. He must’ve spent just a minute standing there, afraid of what would be beyond there. 

Eventually, though, Hamilton peeked around the corner, to see the enterance to a huge clearing.

On the floor of the clearing, was scarlet.

But it wasn’t blood.

It was apples. 

More than dozens and dozens and dozens of blood-red apples, freshly fallen from an apple tree with branches and boughs that stretched overhead, like it had been there for a million years.

There was something in Hamilton’s mind that worked faster than he could think. The apples on the ground, the apples in the basket in the kitchen. Laurens’ voice, saying that he brought in the apples, that it was what kept him sane. The image of Laurens growing plants like it was nothing. And then the voice of that idiotic,  _ idiotic  _ man, who thought that Laurens cared more about his appearance than the cause.

Hamilton scanned the rest of the clearing desperately, holding out the flame in front of him. He searched, and eventually, between the shadows and the red, Hamilton caught a glimpse of  _ blue. _

“Laurens,” he half-choked out, tripping over the apples in his attempt to get to Laurens’ side. He was collapsed face-first, one arm trapped underneath his torso and the other reaching for something away from his body. His head was tilted away, looking for that thing just out of arm’s reach. “Laurens, oh god, Laurens.” Hamilton knelt down beside Laurens, letting the flame that was in his hand float just above his head. He pressed his ear down to Laurens’ back, and almost cried when he heard soft breaths. 

Carefully, Hamilton picked Laurens up and flipped him somewhat, so that Laurens’ back was on Hamilton’s lap. There was a knife on the ground, having been covered by Laurens’ body, and Hamilton reached over to take it. It still had blood on it, congealed but not fully dried out. Hamilton set it aside, taking the arm that had been reaching out and finding that blood had stained his sleeve. He first cleaned the actual wound, and then healed it with as much precision as his nervous stuttering could allow. After that, he cleaned the blood from the sleeve, knowing that Laurens would’ve wanted that done. Then, he checked Laurens’ torso, in case the knife may have done damage when he’d fallen. Luckily, it hadn’t. 

Finally, Hamilton looked up to Laurens’ face, and he was…

He was awake. His eyes were open, though looking away from Hamilton, guiltily. 

“Are you alright? God, Laurens, are you alright?” Hamilton let his hands fly up to Laurens’ face, his thumb brushing away a strand of loose hair. 

Using an exhale rather than his voice, Laurens let out something along the lines of, “sorry.”

Shaking his head, Hamilton felt tears gathering in his eyes. “Laurens, it’s okay, just tell me if you’re alright. Please.”

“Switched to… To blood magic. Used t' use just a ritual, but I switched. Didn’... Don’ know what I thought. ‘M sorry.”

“Don’t be.” Hamilton tried to say that in a solid voice, but it was broken in two by a sob. “Please, just tell me if you’re alright.”

“Will be,” Laurens replied, shifting his eyes to Hamilton’s face. “Said I’d keep’t in mind. ‘M sorry."

“I made something for you,” Hamilton whispered, leaning down so his forehead rested on Laurens’ chest. 

“Th’ message. I got it. Forgot the spell. Couldn’ think.”

“I figured. I- I made you a spell. It translates my Tome into English. Without blood magic.”

And then, surrounded by apples produced by and the color of his own blood, Laurens let out a laugh as strong as his current state let him. “Ham, you’re-” he let out another breathy laugh, and started again, “Ham, I think I love you, and it scares me.”

Without lifting his head, Hamilton nodded ever so slightly. “I’ve been searching for those words for- for a lifetime.”

One of Laurens’ hands found its way to Hamilton’s face. They made eye contact, and Laurens smiled softly, like Hamilton was the only thing worth smiling at in the universe. “If… If we get back to the house tonigh’, would you sleep next t’ me? Just this once?”

“I promise that I will,” Hamilton said with a bit of a smirk.

But it seemed that Laurens judged that smirk for some  _ other  _ emotion, because he began chuckling wildly. “Shouldn’ have let you promise that.”

“Hey now,” Hamilton started, putting on an air of false annoyance, “that promise was made with the  _ most  _ honorable intentions you’ll ever know.”

Laurens was doubly amused. “And ‘m sure you’ll carry it out to its fulles’ extent, too.”

And with that, Hamilton began sobbing. It was with a smile, a wild smile. “We’ll be okay.”

“We’ll be okay,” Laurens repeated, a hand moving to touch Hamilton’s. “Promise.”

“Promise.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this took way too long to get out and for that i blame my internet and my health (i've been pretty ill all week but im sorta getting better now). However, this did wind up being like 7k words somehow? wow. i was afraid i wouldnt pass my goal of 4.5k.  
> I might use the next few weeks or so to post chapters of another AU i have for Hamilton, where it's all sci-fi. america is mars. i love it, but since most of my efforts have been focused on this fic for a while, it hasn't been worked on for a while but i still want to get it out. maybe not, though, since having just one update-as-i-go fic is stressful enough, lol.  
> Anyways, I hope evryone has had and will have a lovely 2 weeks! until next time!  
> 


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